The last days of Pompeii

NOVELS

SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

Sibrarjj Icliition

HISTOEICAL EOMAXCES

VOL. III.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

r

THE

LAST DAYS OF POMPEII

SIB EDWARD BULWEB LYTION, BART.

LIBRARY EDITION — IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I. , ^

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLX

H-q*^.

r'",

lS(oO

" Such is Vesuvius ! and tliese tliiugs talce place in it every
year. But all eruptions whicli have happened since would be
trifling, even if all summed into one, compared to what occxirred
at the period we refer to.

K * * *

" Day was turned into night, and light into darkness ;— an inex-
pressible quantity of dust and ashes was poured out, deluging land,
sea, and air, and burying two entire cities, Herculaneum and
Pompeii, while the people were sitting in the theatre ! "—Dion
Cassius, lib. l.wi.

PEEFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834.

Ox visiting those disinterred remains of an ancient City,
■\vhicli, more perhaps than either the delicious breeze or
the cloudless siui, the violet valleys and orange-groves of
the South, attract tlie traveller to the neighbourhood of
Naples ; on viewing, still fresh and vivid, the houses, the
streets, the temples, the theatres of a place existing in the
haughtiest days of the Roman empire — it was not unnatural,
perhaps, that a writer who had before laboured, however
unworthily, in the art to revive and to create, should feel
a keen desire to people once more those deserted streets,
to repair those graceful ruins, to reanimate the bones
which were yet spared to his survey; to traverse tlie gulf
of eighteen centuries, and to wake to a second existence
—the City of the Dead !

And the reader will easily imagine how sensibly this
desire grew upon one whose task was undertaken in the
immediate neighbourhood of Pompeii — the sea that once
bore her commerce, and received her fugitives, at his feet
— and the fatal mountain of Vesuvius, still breathing forth
smoke and fire, constantly before his eyes ! *

* Nearly tlie whole of this work was written at Naples last winter
(1832-3).

vi PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834.

I was aware from the first, however, of the great
difficulties with which I had to contend. To paint the
manners, and exhibit the life, of the Middle Ages, required
the hand of a master-genius ; yet jierhaps that task was
slight and easy in comparison with the attempt to portray
a far earlier and more unfamiliar period. With the men
and customs of the feudal time we have a natural sjtu-
pathy and bond of alliance ; those men were our own
ancestors — from those customs we received our own — the
creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours — their tombs
yet consecrate our churches — the ruins of their castles yet
frown over our valleys. We trace in their struggles for
liberty and for justice our present institutions ; and in the
elements of their social state we behold the origin of our
own.

But with the classical age we have no household and
familiar associations. The creed of that departed religion,
the customs of that past civilisation, present little that is
sacred or attractive to our northern imaginations ; they
are rendered yet more trite to us by the scholastic pedan-
tries which first acquainted us with their nature, and
are linked with the recollection of studies which were
imposed as a labour, and not cultivated as a delight.

Yet the enterprise, thougli arduous, seemed to me worth
attempting ; and in the time and the scene I have chosen,
much may be found to arouse the curiosity of the reader,
and enlist his interest in the descriptions of the author.
It was the first century of our religion ; it was the most
civilised period of Eome ; the conduct of the story lies
amidst places whose relics we yet trace ; the catastrophe
is among the most awful which the tragedies of Ancient
History present to our siuvey.

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. Vll

From the ample materials before me, my endeavour
has been to select those which would be most attractive
to a modern reader ; — the customs and superstitions least
unfamiliar to him — the shadows that, when reanimated,
would present to him such images as, while they re-
presented the past, might be least uninteresting to the
speculations of the present. It did indeed require a
greater self-control than the reader may at first imagine,
to reject much that was most inviting in itself ; but which,
while it might have added attraction to parts of the work,
would have been injurious to the symmetry of the whole.
Thus, for instance, the date of my story is that of the
short reign of Titus, when Rome was at its proudest and
most gigantic eminence of luxury and power. It was,
therefore, a most inviting temptation to the Author to
conduct the characters of his tale, during the progress of
its incidents, from Pompeii to Rome. What could afford
such materials for description, or such field for the vanity
of displa)', as that gorgeous city of the world, whose
grandeur could lend so bright an inspiration to fancy —
so favourable and so solemn a dignity to research ! But,
in choosing for my subject — my catastrophe, the Destruc-
tion of Pompeii, it required but little insight into the
higher principles of art to perceive that to Pompeii the
story should be rigidly confined.

Placed in contrast with the mighty pomp of Rome, the
luxuries and gaud of the vivid Campanian city would
have sunk into insignificance. Her awful fate would
have seemed but "a petty and isolated wreck in the vast
seas of the imperial sway ; and the auxiliary I should have
summoned to the interest of my story, would only have
destroyed and overpowered the cause it was invoked to

viii PKEFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834.

support. I was therefore coiupelled to relinquisli an
episodical excursion so alluring in itself, and, confining
my story strictly to Pompeii, to leave to others the
honour of delineating the hoUovv but majestic civilisation
of Rome.

Tlie city, whose fate supplied me with so superb and
awful a catastrophe, supplied easily, from the first survey
of its remains, the characters most suited to the subject
and the scene : the half-Grecian colony of Hercules,
mingling with the manners of Italy so much of the cos-
tumes of Hellas, suggested of itself the characters of
Glaucus and lone. The worship of Isis, its existent fane
with its false oracles unveiled — the trade of Pompeii
with Alexandria — the associations of the Sarnus with
the Nile, — called forth the Egyptian Arbaces, the base
Calenus, and the fervent Apsecides. The early struggles
of Christianity with the heathen superstition suggested the
creation of Olinthus : and the burnt fields of Campania,
long celebrated for the spells of the sorceress, natm-ally
produced the Saga of Vesuvius. For the existence of the
Blind Girl, I am indebted to a casual conversation with
a gentleman, well known amongst the English at Naples
for his general knowledge of the many paths of life.
Speaking of the utter darkness which accompanied the
first recorded eruption of Vesuvius, and the additional
obstacle it presented to the escape of tlie inhabitants, he
observed that the blind would be the most favoured in
such a moment, and find the easiest deliverance. In this
remark originated the creation of Nydia.

The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of
the scene and time. The incidents of the tale are equally
consonant, perhaps, to the then existing society ; for it is

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. ix

not ouly the ordinary habits of life, the feasts and the
forum, the baths and the amphitheatre, the commonplace
routine of the classic luxury, which we recall the past to
behold ; — equally important, and more deeply interesting,
are the passions, the crimes, the misfortunes, and reverses
that might have chanced to the shades we thus summon
to life ! We understand any epoch of the world but ill
if we do not examine its romance. There is as much
truth in the poetry of life as in its prose.

As the greatest difficulty in treating of an unfamiliar
and distant period is to make the characters introduced
"live and move" before the eye of the reader, so such
should doubtless be the first object of a work of the pre-
sent description ; and all attemjJts at the display of learn-
ing should be considered but as means subservient to this,
the main requisite of fiction. The first art of the Poet
(the creator) is to breathe the breath of life into his crea-
tures— the next is to make their words and actions ap-
propriate to the era in which they are to speak and act.
This last art is, perhaps, the better efl:ected by not bring-
ing the art itself constantly before the reader — by not
crowding the page with quotations, and the margin with
notes. The intuitive spirit which infuses antiquity into
ancient images, is, perhaps, the true learning which a
work of this nature requires ; without it, pedantry is
offensive — with it, \iseless. No man who is thoroughly
aware of what Prose Fiction has now become — of its
dignity, of its influence, of the manner in which it has
gradually absorbed all similar departments of literature,
of its power in teaching as well as amusing — can so far
forget its connection with History, with Philosophy, with
Politics — its utter harmony with Poetry and obedience

X PEEFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834.

to Truth — as to debase its nature to the level of scholas-
tic frivolities : he raises scholarship to the creative, and
does not bow the creative to the scholastic.

With respect to the language used by the characters
introduced, I have studied carefully to avoid what has
always seemed to me a fatal error in those who have
attempted, in modern times, to introduce the beings of a
classical age.* Authors have mostly given to them the
stilted sentences, the cold and didactic solemnities of
language which they find in the more admired of the
classical writers. It is an error as absurd to make
Eomans in common life talk in the periods of Cicero, as
it would be in a novelist to endow his English personages
with the long-dra^m sentences of Johnson or Burke.
The fault is the greater, because, while it pretends to

* Wliat the strong common-sense of Sir Walter Scott has ex-
pressed so well in his Preface to Ivanhoe (1st edition), appears to
me at least as applicable to a writer who draws from classical as
to one who borrows from feudal antiquity. Let me avail myself of
the words I refer to, and humljly and reverently appropriate them
for the moment : — " It is true that I neither can, nor do jjretend,
to the oliservation [observance ?] of complete accuracy even in mat-
ters of outward costume, much less in the more important points
of language and manners. But the same motive which prevents
my writing the dialogue of the piece in Anglo-Saxon, or in Nonnan-
Fi'ench \in Latin or in Greek], and which prohibits my sending
forth this essay printed with the types of Caxton or Wynken de
Worde [ityritten with a reed u])onjive rolls of j)archment, fastened to a
cylinder, and adorned with a boss], prevents my attempting to con-
fine myself within the limits of the period to which my story is laid.
It is necessary, for exciting interest of any kind, that the subject
assumed should be, as it were, translated into the manners as well
as the language of the age we live in.

"In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I
tnist, devour this book with avidity [hem /], I have so far explained
ancient manners in modern language, and so far detailed the char-

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1834. xi

learning, it betrays in reality the ignorance of just cri-
ticism— it fatigues, it wearies, it revolts — and we have
not the satisfaction, in yawning, to think that we yawn
eruditely. To impart anything like fidelity to the dia-
logues of classic actors, we must beware (to use a univer-
sity phrase) how we "cram" for the occasion! Nothing
can give to a writer a more stiff and uneasy gait than the
sudden and hasty adoption of the toga. We must bring
to our task the familiarised knowledge of many years ;
the allusions, the phraseology, the language generally,
must flow from a stream that has long been full ; the
flowers must be transplanted from a living soil, and not
bought second-hand at the nearest market-place. This
advantage — which is, in fact, only that of a familiarity
with our subject — is one derived rather from accident
than merit, and depends upon the degree in which the
classics have entered into the education of our youth and
the studies of our maturity. Yet, even did a writer
possess the utmost advantage of this nature which educa-
tion and study can bestow, it might be scarcely possible
so entirely to transport himself to an age so different
from his own, but that he would incur some inaccuracies,

acters and sentiments of my persons, that the modem reader will
not find himself, I should hope, much trammelled by the repulsive
dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respectfully contend, I have
in no respect exceeded the fair licence due to the author of a ficti-
tious composition.

******

"It is true," proceeds my authority, "that this licence is con-
fined witliin legitimate bounds ; the author must introduce nothing
inconsistent with the manners of the age." — Preface to Ivanhoe.

I can add nothing to these judicious and discriminating remarks ;
they form the canons of true criticism, by which all fiction that
portrays the past should be judged.

xii PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850.

some errors of inadvertence or forgetfulness. And when,
in works upon the manners of the ancients — works even
of the gravest character, composed by the profoundest
scholars — some snch imperfections will often be discovered,
even by a critic in comjiarison but superficially informed,
it would be far too presumptuous in me to hojie that I
have been more fortunate than men infinitely more learn-
ed, in a work in which learning is infinitely less required.
It is for this reason that I venture to believe that scholars
themselves will be the most lenient of my judges. Enough
if this book, whatever its imperfections, should be foimd
a portrait — unskilful, perhaps, in colouring, faulty in
dra^\dng, but not altogether unfaithful to the featiu-es and
the costume of the age which I have attempted to paint.
May it be (what is far more important) a just represen-
tation of the hmnan passions and the human heart, whose
elements in all ayes are the same !

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850.

This work has had the good fortune to be so general a
favourite with the Public, that the Author is sj)ared the
task of obtruding any comments in its ^nndication from
adverse criticism. The profound scholarship of German
criticism, which has given so minute an attention to the
domestic life of the ancients, has sufficiently testified to
the general fidelity with which the manners, habits, and

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850. Xlil

customs, of the inhabitants of Pompeii have been de-
scriljed in these pages. And writing the work almost on
the spot, and amidst a population that still preserve a
strong family likeness to their classic forefathers, I could
scarcely fail to catch something of those living colours
which mere book-study alone would not have sufficed to
bestow ; it is, I suspect, to this accidental advantage that
this work is principally indebted for a greater popularity
than has hitherto attended the attempts of scholars to
create an interest, by fictitious narrative, in the manners
and persons of a classic age. Perhaps, too, the writers I
allude to, and of whose labours I would speak with the
highest respect, did not sufficiently remember, that in
works of imagination, the description of manners, how-
ever important as an accessary, must still be subordinate
to the vital elements of interest — viz., plot, character, and
passion. And, in reviving the ancient shadows, they
have rather sought occasion to display eruilition, than to
show how the human heart beats the same, whether under
the Grecian tunic or the Roman toga. It is this, indeed,
which distinguishes the imitators of classic learning from
the classic literature itself. For, in classic literature,
there is no want of movement and passion — of all the
more animated elements of what we now call Romance.
Indeed, romance itself, as we take it from the middle
ages, owes much to Grecian fable. Many of the adven-
tures of knight-errantry are borrowed either from the
trials of Ulysses or the achievements of Theseus. And
while Homer, yet nnrestored to his throne among the
poets, was only known to the literature of early chivalry
in a spurious or grotesque form, the genius of Gothic
fiction was constructing many a tale for Northern wonder

xiv PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850.

from the mutilated fragments of the cliviue old tale-
teller.

Amongst those losses of the past which we have most
to deplore are the old novels or romances for which
Miletus was famous. But, judging from all else of Greek
literature that is left to us, there can be little doubt that
they were well fitted to sustain the attention of lively
and impatient audiences by the same ai'ts which are
necessary to the modern tale-teller : that they could not
have failed in variety of incident and surprises of inge-
nious fancy ; in the contrasts of character ; and, least of
all, in the delineations of the tender passion, which,
however modified in its expression by differences of
national habits, forms the main su.bject of human interest,
in all the multiform varieties of fictitious narrative —
from the Chinese to the Arab — from the Arab to the
Scandinavian — and which, at this day, animates the tale
of many an itinerant Boccaccio, gathering his spell-bound
listeners round him, on sunny evenings, by the Sicilian
seas.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

BOOK I.— CHAPTER I.

The two Gentlemen of Pompeii.

'' Ho, Diomed, well met 1 Do you sup with Glaucus
to-niglitl" said a young man of small stature, who
wore his tunic in those loose and effeminate folds
which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.

" Alas, no I dear Clodius ; he has not invited me,"
replied Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle
age. " By Pollux, a scurvy trick ! for they say his
suppers are the best in Pompeii."

" Pretty well — though there is never enough of wine
for me. It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his
A^eins, for he pretends that "wine makes him dull the
next morning."

" There may be another reason for that thrift," said
Diomed, raising his brows. " With aU his conceit and

VOL. 1. A

2 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

extravagance lie is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to
be, and perhaps loves to save his amphorte better than
his -wit."

" An additional reason for supping with him while
the sesterces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find
another Glaucus."

" He is fond of the dice, too, I hear."

" He is fond of every pleasure ; and while he likes
the pleasure of giving suppers, we are all fond of
Jiim."

" Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said ! Have you ever
seen my wine-cellars, by the by ?"

" I think not, my good Diomed."

" Well, you must sup with me some evening; I have
tolerable mui'renae''' in my reservoir, and I will ask
Pansa the sedile to meet you."

" Oh, no state with me ! — Persicos odi opparafv^, I
am easily contented. Well, the day wanes ; I am for
the baths — and you "

" To the qufestor — business of state — afterwards to
the temple of Isis. Vale !"

" An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow," muttered
Clodius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. " He
thinks with his feasts and his wine-cellars to make us
forget that he is the son of a freedman : — and so Ave
will, when we do him the honour of winning his money ;
these rich plebeians are a harvest for us spendthrift
nobles."

Thus soliloquising, Clodius arrived in the A"ia Domi-
* Micrcenoe — lampreys.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 3

tiana, wliicli was crowded with passengers and chariots,
and exhibited all that gay and animated exuberance of
life and motion wliich we find at tliis day in the streets
of Naples.

The bells of the cars, as they rapidly glided by each
other, jingled merrily on the ear, and Clodius "vvith
smiles or nods claimed familiar acquaintance with
whatever equipage was most elegant or fantastic : in
fact, no idler was better known in Pompeii.

" What, Clodius ! and how have you slept on your
good fortune 1 " cried, in a pleasant and musical voice,
a young man, in a chariot of the most fastidious and
graceful fashion. Upon its surface of bronze were
elaborately wrought, in the still exquisite workmanship
of Greece, reliefs of the Olympian games : the two
horses that drew the car were of the rarest breed of
Parthia; their slender limbs seemed to disdain the
ground and court the air, and yet at the slightest touch
of the charioteer, who stood behind the young owner
of the equipage, they paused motionless, as if suddenly
transformed into stone — Hfeless, but lifelike, as one of
the breathing wonders of Praxiteles. The o^^^ler him-
self was of that slender and beautiful symmetry from
Avhich the scidptors of Athens drew their models ; liis
Grecian origin betrayed itself in his light but clustering
locks, and the perfect harmony of his features. He
wore no toga, which in the time of the emperors had
indeed ceased to be the general distinction of the Eo-
mans, and was especially ridicided by the pretenders
to fiishion ; but his tunic Ldowed in the richest hues of

4 THE LAST DxU'S OF POMTEII.

tlic Tyrian dye, and the fibulaj, or buckles, V>y which
it was fastened, sparkled Avith emeralds : around his
neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his
l)reast twisted itself into the form of a serpent's head,
from the mouth of which hung pendent a large signet
ring of elaborate and most exquisite workmanship ; the
sleeves of the tunic were loose, and fringed at the hand
"with gold : and across the waist a girdle wrought in
arabesque designs, and of the same material as the
fringe, served in lieu of pockets for the receptacle of
the handkerchief and the purse, the stilus and the
tablets.

" My dear Glaucus !" said Clodius, " I rejoice to see
that your losses have so little affected your mien. Why,
you seem as if you had been inspired by Apollo, and
your face shines with happiness like a glory ; any one
miglit take you for the winner, and me for the loser."

" And what is tliere in the loss or gain of those dull
pieces of metal that sliould change our spirit, my Clo-
dius 1 By Venus, while, yet young, Ave can cover our
full locks with chaplets — while yet the cithara sounds
on unsated ears — while yet the smile of Lydia or of
Chloe flashes over our veins in Avhich the blood runs
so swiftly, so long shall Ave find delight in the sunny
air, and make l)ald time itself but tlie tr(>asurer of (tur
joys. You sup with me to-night, you knoAV."

" "Wlro ever forgets the inA'itation of Glaucus ! "

" r)ut Avhich way go you now 1 "

" Wliy, I thought of visiting iho. l)aths : but it Avants
yet an hour to the usual time."

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 5

" Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you.
So, so, my Phylias," stroking the horse nearest to him,
which by a low neigh and with backward ears playfully
acknowledged the courtesy: "a holiday for you to-day.
Is he not handsome, Clodius ? "

" Worthy of riiceljus," returned the noble parasite,
" or of Glaucus."

CHAPTER II.

The blind Flower-Girl, and the Beauty of Fashion — The Athenian's
Confession — The Reader's Introduction to Ai'baces of Egypt.

Talking lightly on a thousand matters, tlie two young
men sauntered through the streets : they were now in
that quarter which was filled with the gayest shops,
their open interiors all and each radiant with the gaudy
yet harmonious colours of frescoes, inconceivably varied
in fancy and design. The sparkling fountains, that at
every vista threw upwards their gratefid spray in the
summer air ; the crowd of passengers, or rather loiterers,
mostly clad in robes of the Tyrian dye ; the gay groups
collected round each more attractive shop ; the slaves
passing to and fro with buckets of bronze, cast in the
most graceful shapes, and borne upon their heads ; the
country girls stationed at frequent intervals with bas-
kets of blushing fruit, and flowers more alluring to the
ancient Italians than to their descendants (with whom,
indeed, "latet angais in 7; c?7ot," a disease seems lui'k-
ing in every violet and rose),* the numerous haunts
which fulfilled witli that idle people the office of cafes
and clubs at this day ; the shops, where on shelves of
* See note (a) at the end.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 7

marble were ranged the vases of wine and oil, and be-
fore whose thresholds, seats, protected from the sun by
a purple a-\\Tiing, invited the weary to rest and the in-
dolent to lounge — made a scene of such glowing and
vivacious excitement, as might well give the Athenian
spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility to joy.

" Talk to me no more of Eome," said he to Clodius.
" Pleasure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty
Avails : even in the precincts of the court — even in the
Golden House of Nero, and the incipient glories of the
palace of Titus, there is a certain didness of magnifi-
cence— the eye aches — the spirit is wearied ; besides,
my Clodius, we are discontented when we compare the
enormous luxury and wealth of others with the medio-
crity of oiu- own state. But here we surrender oui'selves
easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy of luxury
■without the lassitude of its pomp."

" It was from that feeKng that you chose your sum-
mer retreat at Pompeii 1"

" It was. It prefer it to Baise : I gTant the charms
of the latter, but I love not the ped.ants who resort
there, and who seem to weigh out their pleasures by
the drachm."

" Yet you are fond of the learned, too ; and as for
poetry, why your house is literally eloquent with
iEschylus and Homer, the ejiic and the drama."

" Yes, but those Eomans, who mimic my Athenian
ancestors, do everything so heavily. Even in the chase
they make their slaves carry Plato Avith them ; and
whenever the boar is lost, out they take their books

8 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

and tlieir papyrus, in order not to lose their time too.
Wlaen the dancing-girls swim hefore them in all the
l)landishment of Persian manners, some drone of a
freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of
Cicero De Ofjiciis. Unskilful pharmacists ! pleasure
and study are not elements to be thus mixed together
— they must be enjoyed separately : the Eomans lose
both by this pragmatical affectation of refinement, and
])rove that they have no souls for either. Oh, my
Clodius, how little your countrymen know of the true
versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of an
Aspasia ! It was but the other day that I paid a visit
to Pliny : he was sitting in his summer-house ■writing,
wliile an unfortunate slave played on the tibia. His
nephew (oh ! whip me such philosopliical coxcombs !)
was reading Thucydides' description of the plague, and
nodding his conceited little head in time to the music,
wliile his lips were repeating all the loathsome details
of that terrible delineation. The puppy saw nothing
incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of
love and a description of the plague."

" Why, they are much the same tiling," said Clodius.
" So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry ; — ^but
my youth stared me rebukingly in the face, Avithout
taking the jest, and answered, that it was only the in-
sensate ear that the music pleased, whereas the book
(the description of the plague, mind you !) elevated the
heart. ' Ah ! ' quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, ' my boy
is quite an Athenian, always mixing the idih with the
dulce.' 0 Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve !

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 9

AVliile I was there, they came to tell the boy-sophist
that his favourite freed man was just dead of a fever.
' Inexorable death ! ' cried he ; — ' get me my Horace.
How beautifully tlie sweet poet consoles us for these
misfortunes ! ' Oh, can these men love, my Clodius 1
Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Eoman
has a heart ! He is but the mechanism of genius — he
wants its bones and flesh."

Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these
remarks on his countrymen, he affected to sympathise
with his friend, partly because he was by nature a
parasite, and partly because it was the fashion among
the dissolute young Eomans to aflect a little contempt
for the very bulh which, in reality, made them so
arrogant ; it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and
yet to laugh at their own clumsy imitation.

Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a
crowd gathered round an open space where tliree
streets met ; and, just where the porticos of a light
and graceful temple tlu-ew their shade, there stood a
young gui, with a flower-basket on her right arm, and
a small three-stringed instrument of music in the left
hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating
a Avild and half-barbaric air. At every^ pause in the
music she gracefully waved her flower-basket round,
inviting the loiterers to buy; and many a sesterce
was showered mto the basket, either in compliment to
the music or in compassion to the songstress — for she
was blind.

" It is my poor Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping ;

10 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" I have not seen her since my retiu'n to Pompeii.
Hush ! her voice is sweet ; let us listen."

THE BLIND FLOWEE-GIRL'S SONG.

" Buy my flowers — 0 buy — I pray !

The blind girl comes from afar ;
If tlie earth be as fair as I hear them say,

These flowers her children are !
Do they her beauty keep ?

They are fresh from her lap, I know ;
For I caught them fast asleep

In her arms an hour ago.

With the air which is her breath —

Her soft and delicate breath — •
Over them murmuring low !

On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet.
And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet.
For she weeps — that gentle mother weej)s —
(As morn and night her watch she keeps.
With a yearning heart and a passionate care)—
To see the young things grow so fair ;
She weejjs — for love she weeps,
And the dews are the tears she weepis.
From the well of a mother's love !

n.

Ye have a world of light,

Where love in the loved rejoices ;
But the blind girl's home is the House of Night,

And its beings are emjity voices.

As one in the realm below,
I stand by the streams of woe !
I hear the vain shadows glide,
I feel their soft breath at my side.

And I thirst the loved forms to see,
And I stretch my fond arms around.
And I catch but a shapeless sound,
or the living are ghosts to me.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 11

Come buy— come buy ! —
Hark ! liow the sweet things sigh
(For tliey have a voire like ours),
* Tlie breath of the lilind girl closes
The leaves of the saddening roses—
We are tender, we sons of light :
We shrink from this child of night ;
From the grasp of the blind girl free us :
We yearn for the eyes that see us —
We are for night too gay,
In your eyes we behold the day—
0 buy — 0 buy the flowers ! ' "

*' I must have yon biincli of violets, -sweet iSTydia,"
said GlauciLS, pressing through the crowd, and dropping
a handfid of small coins into the basket ; " your voice
is more charming than ever."

The blind girl started forn'ard as she heard the
Athenian's voice ; then as suddenly paused, while the
blood rushed violently over neck, cheek, and temples.

" So you are returned ! " said she, in a low voice ;
and then repeated half to herself, " Glaucus is
returned ! "

*' Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a
few days. My garden Avants your care, as before ; you
will visit it, I trust, to-morrow. And mind, no gar-
lands at my house shall be woven by any hands but
those of the pretty !N^ydia.

Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer ; and
Glaucus, placing in his breast the violets he had
selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the crowd.

" So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child 1 "
said Clodius.

12 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

"Ay — does she not sing prettily? She interests
me, the poor slave ! Besides, she is from the land of
the gods' hill — Olympus frowned upon her cradle —
she is of Thessaly."

" The witches' country."

"True : but for my part I find every woman a witch ;
and at Pompeii, by Venus ! the very air seems to have
taken a love-pliiltre, so handsome does every face ^Yii\l-
out a beard seem in my eyes."

" And lo ! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old
Diomed's daughter, the rich Jidia ! " said Clodius, as
a young lady, her face covered by her ved, and attended
by two female slaves, approached them, in her way to
the baths.

" Fau' Julia, we salute thee ! " said Clodius.

Jwlia partly raised her veU, so as with some coquetry
to display a bold Eoman profile, a full, dark, bright
eye, and a cheek over whose natural olive art shed a
fairer and softer r(jse.

" And Glaucus, too, is returned 1 " said she, glancing
meaningly at the Athenian. " Has he forgotten," she
added, in a half-Avhisper, " his friends of the last
year?"

" Eeautiful Julia ! even Lethe itself, if it disappear
in one part of the earth rises again in another. Jupiter
does not allow us ever to forget for more than a mo-
ment ; but Venus, more harsh stUl, vouchsafes not
even a moment's oblivion."

" Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words."

" AVho is, when the object of them is so fair?"

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 13

"We shall see you both at my father's villa soon,"
said Julia, tiu-ning to Clodius.

" "VYe will mark the day in which we visit you with
a white stone," answered the gamester.

Julia dropped her ved, but slowly, so that her last
glance rested on the Athenian with affected timidity
and real boldness ; the glance besjwke tenderness and
reproach.

The friends passed on.

" Jidia is certainly handsome," said Glaucus.

" And last year you Avould have made that confession
in a warmer tone."

"True: I was dazzled at the first sight, and mis-
took for a gem that which was but an artful imita-
tion."

" Nay," returned Clodius, " all women are the same
at heart. Happy he who weds a handsome face and a
large dower. What more can he desire 1 "

Glaucus sighed.

They were now in a street less crowded than the
rest, at the end of which they beheld that broad and
most lovely sea, which upon those delicious coasts
seems to have renounced its prerogative of terror, — so
soft are the crisping ^vinds that hover around its bosom,
so glowing and so various are the hues which it takes
from the rosy clouds, so fragrant are the perfumes
which the breezes from the land scatter over its depths.
From such a sea might you well believe that Aphro-
dite rose to take the empire of the earth.

" It is still early for the bath," said the Greek, who

14 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

was the creature of every poetical impulse ; " let us
wander from the crowded city, and look upon the sea
while the noon yet laughs along its billows."

" With all my heart," said Clodius ; " and the bay,
too, is always the most animated part of the city."

Pompeii was the miniature of the civilisation of that
age. "Within the narrow compass of its walls was con-
tained, as it were, a specimen of every gift which luxury
offered to power. In its minute but glittering shops,
its tiny palaces, its baths, its forum, its theatre, its
circus — in the energy yet corruption, in the refinement
yet the vice, of its people, you beheld a model of the
whole empire. It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox,
in which the gods seemed pleased to keep the repre-
sentation of the great monarchy of earth, and which
they afterwards hid from time, to give to the wonder
of posterity ; — the moral of the maxim, that under the
sun there is nothing new.

CroAvded in the glassy bay were the vessels of com-
merce and the gilded galleys for the pleasures of the
rich citizens. The boats of the fishermen glided
rapidly to and fro ; and afar off you saw the tall masts
of the fleet under the command of Pliny. Upon the
shore sat a Sicilian, who, with vehement gestures and
flexile features, was narrating to a group of fishermen
and peasants a strange tale of shipwrecked mariners
and friendly dolphins : — just as at this day, in the
modern neighbourhood, you may hear upon the Mole of
N'aples.

Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII, 15

bent liis steps towards a solitary i^art of tlie beach, and
the two friends, seated on a small crag which rose
amidst the smooth j^ebbles, inhaled the volu])tuous and
cooling breeze, which, dancing over the waters, kept
music Avith its invisible feet. There was, perhaps,
something in the scene that invited them to silence
and reverie. Clodius, shading his eyes from the burn-
ing sky, was calculating the gains of the last Aveek;
and the Greek, leaning upon his hand, and slirinking
not from that sun, — his nation's tutelary deity, — with
whose fluent light of poesy, and joy, and love, his own
veins were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, and
envied, perhaps, every wind that bent its pinions
towards the shores of Greece.

" Tell me, Clodius," said the Greek at last, " hast
thou ever been in love?"

" Yes, very often."

" He who has loA^ed often," answered Glaucus, " has
loved never. There is but one Eros, though there are
many counterfeits of him."

" The counterfeits are not bad little gods, upon the
whole," answered Clodius.

" I agree with you," returned the Greek. " I adore
even the shadow of Love ; but I adore himself yet
more."

"Art thou, tlien, soberly and earnestly in love?
Hast thou that feeling which the poets describe — a
feeling that makes us neglect our suppers, forswear
the theatre, and write elegies? I should never liave
thought it. You dissemble well."

16 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" I am not far gone enough for that," returned

Glaucus, smiling ; "or rather I say with Tibullus, —

' He whom love niles, wliere'er his path may be,
Walks safe and sacred.'

In fact, I am not in love ; but I could be if there

were but occasion to see the object. Eros woiild light

his torch, but the priests have given him no oil."

" Shall I guess the object ? — Is it not Diomed's
daughter'? She adores you, and does not affect to con-
ceal it ; and, by Hercules, I say again and again, she
is both handsome and rich. She will bind the door-
posts of her husband with golden fillets."

" jSTo, I do not desire to sell myself Diomed's
daughter is handsome, I grant ; and at one time, had
she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I might

have Yet no — she carries all her beauty in her

face ; her manners are not maidenlike, and her mind
knows no cidture save that of pleasure."

" You are ungrateful. Tell me, then, who is the
fortunate virgin 1 "

" You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago
I was sojourning at ISTeapolis,* a city utterlj^ to my own
heart, for it still retains the manners and stamp of its
Grecian origin, — and it yet merits the name of Par-
thenope, from its delicious air and its beautifid shores.
One day I entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up
my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on
which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty
and deserted. The recollections of Athens crowded
* Naples.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 17

fast and meltingly upon me : imagining myself still
alone in the temple, and absorbed in tlie earnestness
of my devotion, my prayer gushed from my heart to
my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was startled in
the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh ;
I turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a
female. She had raised her veil also in prayer ; and
when our eyes met, methought a celestial ray shot
from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my soul.
Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more ex-
quisitely moidded : a certain melancholy softened and
yet elevated its expression ; that unutterable some-
thing which springs from the soul, and which our
sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave
her beauty I know not what of divine and noble : tears
were roUing down her eyes. I guessed at once that
she was jilso of Athenian IjJigage ; and that in my
prayer for Athens her heart had responded to mine.
I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice, — 'Art
thou not, too, i\thenian,' said I, '0 beautiful virgin'?'
At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew
her veil across her face, — ' !My forefathers' ashes,' said
she, ' repose by the waters of Dyssus : my birth is of
Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian.'
— ' Let us, then,' said I, ' make our offerings together : '
and, as the priest now appeared, we stood side by side,
while we followed the priest in his ceremonial prayer ;
together we touched the knees of the goddess — to-
gether we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt
a strange emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this

VOL. I. B

18 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

companionship. "We, strangers from a far and fallen
land, stood together and alone in that temple of om-
country's deity ; was it not natural that my heart
should yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might
surely call her? I felt as if I had known her for
years ; and that simple rite seemed, as by a miracle,
to operate on the sjmipathies and ties of time. Silently
we left the temple, and I was about to ask her where
she dwelt, and if I might be permitted to visit her,
when a youth, in whose features there was some kin-
dred resemblance to her own, and who stood upon the
steps of the fane, took her by the hand. She turned
round and bade me farewell. The crowd separated us :
I saw her no more. On reaching my home I found
letters, which obliged me to set out for Athens, for my
relations threatened me with litigation concerning my
inheritance. "When that suit was happily over I re-
paired once more to jSTeapolis ; I instituted inquiries
throughout the whole city, I could discover no clue of
my lost countrywoman, and, hoping to lose in gaiety
aU remembrance of that beautifid apparition, I hastened
to plunge myself amidst the luxm'ies of Pompeii. This
is all my history. I do not love ; but I remember and
regret."

As Clodius Avas aboiit to reply, a slow and stately step
approached them, and at the sound it made amongst the
pebbles, each turned and each recognised the neAv-comer.

It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth
year, of tall stature, and of a thin but nervous and
sinewy frame. His skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 19

his Eastern origin ; and liis features had something
Greek in their outline (especially in the chin, the lip,
and the brow), save that the nose was somewhat raised
and aquiline ; and the bones, hard and visible, for-
bade that fleshy and waving contour which on the
Grecian j'hysiognoniy preserved even in manhood the
round and beautiful curves of youth. His eyes, large
and black as the deepest night, shone with no varpng
and uncertain lustre. A deep, thoughtful, and half-
melancholy calm seemed unalterably fixed in their
majestic and commanding gaze. His step and mien
were peculiarly sedate and lofty, and something foreign
in the fashion and the sober hues of his sweeping gar-
ments added to the impressive effect of his quiet coun-
tenance and stately form. Each of the young men, in
saluting the new-comer, made mechanically, and \vith
care to conceal it from him, a slight gesture or sigoi
Avith their fingers ; for Arbaces, the Egyptian, was
supposed to possess jthe fatal gift of the evjl eye.^

" The scene must indeed lie beautifid," said Ar-
baces, with a cold though coui'teous smile, "which
draws the gay Clodius, and Glaucus the all-admired,
from the crowded thoroughfares of the city."

" Is Xature ordinarily so unattractive 1 " asked the
Greek.

" To the dissipated — yes."

" An austere reply, but scarcely a wise one. Pleasure
delights in contrasts ; it is from dissipation that we
learn to enjoy solitude, and from solitiide dissipation."

" So think the young philosophers of the garden,"

20 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

replied the Egyptian ; " they mistake lassitude for
meditation, and imagine that, because they are sated
with others, they know the delight of loneliness. But
not in such jaded bosoms can N'atiu-e awaken that en-
thusiasm which alone draws from her chaste reserve
all her unspeakable beauty ; she demands from you,
not the exhaustion of passion, but all that fervour,
from which you only seek, in adoring her, a release.
When, young Athenian, the moon revealed herself in
visions of light to Endymion, it was after a day passed,
not amongst the feverish haunts of men, but on the
still mountains and in the solitary valleys of the hunter."
*' Beautifid simile ! " cried Glaucus ; " most unjust
application ! Exhaustion ! that word is for age, not
youth. By me, at least, one moment of satiety has
never been known ! "

Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold
and blighting, and even the unimaginative Clodius
froze beneath its light. He did not, however, reply to
the passionate exclamation of Glaucus ; but, after a
pause, he said, in a soft and melancholy voice, —

" After all, you do right to enjoy the houi' while it
smiles for you ; the rose soon withers, the perfume
soon exhales. And we, 0 Glaucus ! strangers in the
land, and far from our fathers' ashes, what is there left
for us but pleasure or regret? — for you. the first, per-
haps for me the last."

The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly suffused
with tears.

" Ah, speak not, Arbaces," ho cried — " speak not of

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 21

our ancestors. Let us forget that there were ever other
liberties than those of Eome ! And Glory ! — oh, vainly
Avould Ave call her gliost from the fields of Marathon
and ThermopyljB !"

" Thy heart rebukes thee wliile thou speakest," said
the Egyptian ; " and in thy gaieties this night, thou
wilt be more mindful of Lesena* than of Lais. Vcde !"

Thus sa}"ing, he gathered his robe around him, and
slowly SAvept aAvay,

" I breathe more freely," said Clodius. " Imitating
the Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at
our feasts. In truth, the presence of such an Egyptian
as yon gHding shadow were spectre enough to sour the
richest grape of the Falernian."

" Strange man ! " said Glaucus, musingly ; " yet
dead though he seem to pleasure, and cold to the ob-
jects of the Avorld, scandal belies him, or his house and
liis heart coidd teU a different tale."

" Ah ! there are Avhispers of other orgies than those
of Osiris in his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they
say. Can Ave not get him amongst us, and teach him
the charms of dice 1 Pleasure of pleasures ! hot fe\'er
of hope and fear I inexpressible unjaded passion ! hoAv
fiercely beautiful thou art, 0 Gaming ! "

" Inspired — inspired !" cried Glaucus, laughing; " the
oracle speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next 1 "

* Lesena, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the
torture, bit out her tongue, that the pain might not induce her to
betray the conspiracy against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue
of a lioness, erected in her honour, was to be seen at Athens in the
time of Pausanias.

CHAP TEE III.

Parentage of Glaiicus — Description of the Houses of Pompeii -
A Classic Eevel.

Heaven had given to Glaucus every Llessing but one ;
it had given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illus-
trious descent, a heart of fire, a mind of poetry ; but it
had denied him the heritage of freedom. He v^as born
in Athens, the subject of Eome. Succeeding early to
an ample inlieritance, he had indulged that inclination
for travel so natural to the young, and had drunk deep
of the intoxicating draught of pleasure amidst the gor-
geous luxuries of the imperial court.

He was an Alcibiades -without ambition. He Avas
what a man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents,
readily becomes when you deprive hini of the inspira-
tion of glory. His house at Eome was the theme of
the debauchees, but also of the lovers of art ; and the
sculptors of Greece delighted to task their skill in
adorning the porticos and exedra of an Athenian. His
retreat in Pompeii — alas ! the colours are faded now,
the walls stripped of their paintings ! — its main beauty,
its elaborate finish of grace and ornament, is gone ; —
yet when first given once more to the day, what eulo-

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 23

gies, wliat wonder, did its minute and glowing decora-
tions create — its paintings — its mosaics ! Passionately
enamoured of poetry and the drama, which, recalled to
Glaucus the wit and heroism of his race, that fairy
mansion was adorned with representations of ^schylus
and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste to a
trade, have turned the patron to the professor, and
still (though the error is now acknowledged) they style
in custom, as they first named in mistake, the dis-
bui-ied house of the Athenian Glaucus " the house of

THE DRAMATIC POET."

Pre\dous to oiu" description of this house, it may be
as well to convey to the reader a general notion of the
houses of Pompeii, which he will find to resemble
strongly the plans of Vitruvius ; but A\T.th all those
differences in detail, of caprice and taste, which, being
natural to mankind, have always puzzled antiquaries.
We shall endeavom- to make this description as clear
and unpedantic as possible.

You enter then, usually, by a small entrance-passage
(called vestibulum), into a hall, sometimes with (but
more fi'equently without) the ornament of columns ;
around three sides of this hall are doors communicating
with several bedchambers (among Avliich is the por-
ter's), the best of these being usually appropriated to
country visitors. At the extremity of the hall, on
either side to the right and left, if the house is large,
there are two small recesses, rather than chambers,
generally devoted to the ladies of the mansion ; and in
the centre of the tessellated pavement of the hall is

24 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

invariably a square, shallow reservoir for rain-water
(classically termed imjjluvium), Avhich was admitted by
an aperture in the roof above ; the said apertui'e being
covered at will by an awning. Near this impluvium,
Avhich had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the
ancients, were sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely
than at Eome) placed images of the household gods ; —
the hospitable hearth, often mentioned by the Eoman
poets, and consecrated to the Lares, was at Pompeii
almost invariably formed by a movable brazier ; while
in some corner, often the most ostentatious place,
"W'as deposited a liuge wooden chest, ornamented and
strengthened by bands of bronze or iron, and secured
by strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as to
defy the attempts of any robber to detach it from its
position. It is supposed that this chest was the
money-box, or coffer, of the master of the house ;
though as no money has been foimd in any of the
chests discovered at Pompeii, it is probable that it was
sometimes rather designed for ornament than use.

In tliis hall (or atriurn, to speak classically) the
clients and visitors of inferior rank were usually re-
ceived. In the house of the more "respectable," an
atriensis, or slave peculiarly devoted to the service of
the hall, was invariably retained, and his rank among
his fellow-slaves was high and important. The reser-
voir in the centre must have been rather a dangerous
ornament, but the centre of the hall was like the grass-
plot of a college, and interdicted to the passers to and
fro, Avho found ample space in the margin. Eight op-

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 25

posite the entrance, at the other end of the hall, was an
apartment {tahlinum), in which the pavement was
usually adorned with rich mosaics, and the walls
covered with elaborate paintings. Here were usually-
kept the records of the ftimOy, or those of any public
office that had been filled by the owner : on one side
of this saloon, if we may so call it, was often a dining-
room, or triclinium ; on the other side, perhaps, what
we shoidd now term a cabinet of gems, containing
Avhatever curiosities were deemed most rare and costly ;
and invariably a small passage for the slaves to cross to
the further parts of the house, without passing the
apartments thus mentioned. These rooms all opened
on a square or oblong colonnade, technically termed
peristjde. If the house was small, its boundary
ceased with this colonnade ; and in that case its centre,
however diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the
purpose of a garden, and adorned with vases of flowers,
placed upon pedestals : while, under the colonnade, to
the right and left, were doors, admitting to bedrooms,*
to a second triclinium, or eating-room (for the ancients
generally a])propriated two rooms at least to that pur-
pose, one for summer, and one for winter — or, perhaps,
one for ordinary, the other for festive, occasions) ; and
if the owner aftected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the
name of library, — for a very small room was sufficient
to contain the few rolls of papyrus which the ancients
deemed a notable collection of books.

* The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the sleep
of night, but also to the day siesta (cubiada diurna).

26 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

At tlie end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen.
Supposing the house was large, it did. not end A\dth the
peristyle, and the centre thereof was not in that case a
garden, but might he, perhaps, adorned with a fountain,
or basin for fish ; and at its end, exactly opposite to
the tablinmn, was generally another eating-room, on
either side of whicli were bedo'ooms, and, perhaps, a
picture-saloon, or x^biacotheca/' These apartments
communicated again Avith a square or oblong space,
usually adorned on three sides with a colonnade like
the peristyle, and very much resembling the peri-
style, only usually longer. This was the proper
viridarium, or garden, being commonly adorned
with a fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay
flowers : at its extreme end was the gardener's house ;
on either side, beneath the colonnade, were sometimes,
if the size of the family required it, additional rooms.

At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of im-
portance, being built only above a small part of the house,
and containing rooms for the slaves ; differing in this
respect from the more magnificent edifices of Eome,
which generally contained the principal eating-room
(or coenaculum) on the second floor. The apartments
themselves were ordinarily of small size : for in those
delightful climes they received any extraordinary num-
ber of visitors in the peristyle (or portico), the hall, or
the garden • — and even their banquet-rooms, however
elaborately adorned and carefully selected in point of

* In the stately palaces of Eome, this picture-room generally
comnuiuicated with the atrium.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 27

aspect, "were of diminutive proportions ; for the intel-
lectual ancients, being fond of society, not of crowds,
rarely feasted more than nine at a time, so that large
dinner-rooms were not so necessary with them as with
lis.* But the suite of rooms seen at once from the
entrance must have had a very imposing effect : you
beheld at once the hall richly paved and painted — the
tablinum— the gracefid peristyle, and (if the house
extended farther) the opposite banquet-room and the
garden, which closed the view with some gushing
fount or marble statue.

The reader will now have a tolerable notion of the
Pompeian houses, which resembled in some respects
the Grecian, but mostly the Roman fashion of domestic
architecture. In almost every house there is some
difference in detail from the rest, but the principal
outline is the same in all. In all you find the hall,
the tablinum, and the peristyle, communicating wdth
each other ; in aU you find the walls richly painted ;
and in all the evidence of a people fond of the refining
elegancies of life. The purity of the taste of the Pom-
peians in decoration is, however, questionable : they
were fond of the gaudiest colours, of fantastic designs ;
they often painted the lower half of their columns a
bright red, leaving the rest uncoloured ; and where the
garden was small, its waU was frequently tinted to
deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds,
temples, &c., in perspective — a meretricious delusion

* When tliey entertaiued very large parties, tlie feast was usually
ser^'ed in the hall.

28 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

which the graceful pedantry of Pliny himself adopted,
with a complacent pride in its ingenuity.

But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the
smallest, and yet one of the most adorned and finished
of all the private mansions of Pompeii : it would be a
model at tliis day for the house of " a single man in
May fair " — the envy and dispair of the coelibian pur-
chasers of buhl and marquetry.

You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the
floor of which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with
the weU-knoAvn " Cave canem," — or " Beware the
dog." On either side is a chamber of some size ; for
the interior part of the house not being large enough
to contain the two great divisions of private and public
apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the
reception of visitors who neither by rank nor fami-
liarity were entitled to admission in the penetralia of
the mansion.

Advancing up the vestibule you enter an atrium,
that when first discovered was rich in paintings, which
in point of expression would scarcely disgrace a Rafaele.
You may see them now transplanted to the Neapolitan
museum ; they are still the admiration of connoisseurs
— they depict the parting of Achilles and Briseis.
Wlio does not acknowledge the force, the vigour, the
beauty employed in delineating the forms and faces of
Achilles and the immortal slave !

On one side the atrium, a small staircase admitted
to the apartments for the slaves on the second floor ;
there also were two or three small bedrooms, the walls

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMTEII. 29

of wliicli portrayed the rape of Europa, the battle of
the Amazons, &c.

You now enter the tablinuni, across which, at either
rnd, hung rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half with-
drawn.* On the walls were depicted a poet reading
hio verses to his friends; and in the pavement was
inserted a small and most exquisite mosaic, typical of
the instructions given by the director of the stage to
his comedians.

You passed through this saloon and entered the
peristyle; and here (as I have said before was usually
the case with the smaller houses of Pompeii) the man-
sion ended. From each of the seven columns that
adorned this court hung festoons of garlands ; the
(I'ntre, supplying the place of a garden, bloomed with
the rarest flowers placed in vases of wliite marble, that
were supported on pedestals. At the left hand of this
small garden was a diminutive fane, resembling one of
those small chaj)els placed at the side of roads in
Catholic countries, and dedicated to the Penates ;
before it stood a bronze tripod : to the left of the
(:i )lonnade were two small cubicula, or bedrooms ; to
the right was the triclinium, in which the guests were
now assembled.

This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of
Xaples " The Chamber of Leda ; " and in the beautiful
work of Sir William Gell, the reader wiU fuid an
engraving from that most delicate and graceful painting
I if Leda presenting her new-born to her husband, from

* The tabliniim was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors.

30 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Avliicli the room derives its name. Tliis charming
apartment opened upon the fragrant garden. Round
the table of citrean'^ Avood, higlily jiohshed and deli-
cately wrought with sUver arabesques, were jDlaced the
three couches, wliich were yet more common at Pom-
peii than the semicircular seat that had grown lately
into fashion at Eome : and on these couches of bronze,
studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings
covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding hixuri-
ously to the pressure.

" Well, I must own," said the a?dile Pansa, " that
your house, though scarcely larger than a case for one's
fibidaj, is a gem of its kind. How beautifully painted
is that parting of AchUles and Briseis ! — what a style !
— what heads ! — what a — hem ! "

" Praise from Pansa is indeed valual jle on such sub-
jects," said Clodius, gravely. " Why, the paintings on
Ms walls ! — Ah ! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis ! "

" You flatter me, my Clodius ; indeed you do ; "
quoth the a^dile, who was celebrated thriiugh Pompeii
for having the worst paintings in the world ; for he
was patriotic, and patronised none but Pompeians.
"You flatter me; but there is something pretty —
^Edepol, yes — in the colours, to say nothing of the
design ; — and then for the kitchen, my friends — ah !
that Avas all my fancy."

"What is the design?" said Glaucus. "I have not

* Tlie most valued wood — not the modern citron-tree. My learned
friend, Mr W. S. Lander, conjectiu'es it with much plausibility to
have been mahogany.

THE LAST DxVYS OF POMTEII. 31

yet seen yoiu' kitchen, though I have often witnessed
the excellence of its cheer."

"A cook, my Athenian — a cook sacrificing the
trophies of his skill on the altar of Vista, with a
lieaiitiful mur^na (taken from the life) on a spit at a
distance ; there is some invention there ! "

At tliat instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray
covered Avith the first preparative initia of the feast.
Amidst delicious figs, fresh herbs strewed with snoAV,
anchovies, and eggs, were ranged small cups of diluted
wine sparingly mixed with honey. As these were
[)laced on the table, young slaves bore round to each
I if the five guests (for there Avere no more) the silver
basin of perfumed Avater, and napkins edged Avith a
[lurple fringe. But the eedile ostentatiously drcAv forth
his OAvn napkin, Avhich Avas not, indeed, of so fine a
linen, but in Avhich the fringe Avas tAAdce as broad, and
wiped his hands AA'ith the parade of a man Avho felt he
was calling for admiration.

" A splendid mapjm that of yours," said Clodius ;
■' Avhy, the fringe is as broad as a girdle ! "

" A trifle, my Clodius — a trifle ! They tell me this
stripe is the latest fashion at Rome ; but Glaucus
attends to these tilings more than I."

" Be propitious, 0 Bacclius ! " said Glaucus, inclin-
ing reA^erentially to a beautiful image of the god placed
in the centre of the table, at the corners of A\diich
stood the Lares and the salt-holders. The guests fol-
lowed the prayer, and then, sprinkling the Avine on the
table, they performed the wonted libation.

32 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Tliis over, the convivialists reclined themselves on
the couches, and the business of the hour commenced.
" May this cup be my last ! " said the young Sallust,
as the table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now
loaded with the substantial part of the entertainment,
and the ministering slave poured forth to him a brim-
ming cyathus— " May this cup be my last, but it is the
best wine I have drunk at Pompeii ! "

" Bring hither the amphora," said Glaucus, " and
read its date and its character."

The slave hastened to inform the party that the
scroll fastened to the cork betokened its birth from
Chios, and its age a ripe fifty years.

" How deliciously the snow has cooled it ! " said
Pansa. " It is just enough."

"It is like the experience of a man Avho has cooled
his pleasures sufficiently to give them a double zest,"
exclaimed SaUust.

" It is like a woman's ' No,' " added Glaucus : " it
cools but to inflame the more."

" When is our next wild-beast fight 1 " said Clodius
to Pansa.

" It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August," an-
swered Pansa : "on the day after the Vulcanalia. We
have a most lovely young lion for the occasion."

" 'WTiom shall Ave get for him to eat "? " asked Clo-
dius. " Alas ! there is a great scarcity of criminals.
You must positively find some innocent or other to
condemn to the lion, Pansa ! "

" Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 33

late," replied the aedile, gravely. " It was a most in-
famous law that which forbade us to send our own
slaves to the wild beasts. Not to let us do what we
like with our own, that's what I call an infringement
on property itself."

" ISTot so in the good old days of the Eepublic,"
sighed Sallust.

"And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is
such a disappointment to the poor people. How they
do love to see a good tough battle between a man and
a lion ; and all this innocent pleasure they may lose (if
the gods don't send us a good criminal soon) from this
cursed law ! "

" What can be worse policy," said Clodius, senten-
tiously, " than to interfere with the manly amusements
of the people 1 "

" Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates ! we have no
JS'ero at present," said Sallust.

" He was, indeed, a tyrant ; he shut up our amphi-
theatre for ten years."

" I wonder it did not create a rebellion," said Sallust.

" It very nearly did," returned Pansa, vdili his mouth
full of -wild boar.

Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment
])y a flomish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a
single dish.

" Ah ! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my
Glaucusi" cried the young Sallust, with .sparkling eyes.

Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure
VOL. I. C

34 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

in life like eating — perhaps he had exhausted all the
others ; yet had he some talent, and an excellent
heart — as far as it went.

" I know its face, by Pollux ! " cried Pansa. "It is
an Ambracian kid. Ho ! [snapping liis fingers — a
usual sign to the slaves] we must prepare a new
libation in honour to the new-comer."

" I had hoped," said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone,
" to have procured you some oysters from Britain ; but
the winds that were so cruel to Ctesar have forbid us
the oysters."

"Are they in truth so delicious T' asked Lepidus,
loosening to a yet inore luxurious ease his ungirdled
tunic.

"Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that
gives the flavour ; they want the richness of the Brun-
dusium oyster. But at Rome no supper is complete
without them."

" The poor Britons ! There is some good in them,
after all," said Sallust. " They produce an oyster ! "

" I wish they would produce us a gladiator," said
the fedUe, whose provident mind was musing over the
wants of the amphitheatre.

" By Pallus ! " cried Glaucus, as his favourite slave
crowned his streaming locks with a new chaplet, " I
love these wild spectacles Avell enough when beast
fights beast ; but when a man, one with bones and
blood like ours, is coldly put on tlie arena, and torn
limb from limb, the interest is too horrid : I sicken — ■
I gasp for breath — I long to rush and defend him.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 35

The yells of the populace seem to me more dire than
the voices of the Furies chasing Orestes. I rejoice
that there is so little chance of that bloody exhibition
for our next show ! "

The redile shrugged his shoulders. The young Sal-
lust, who was thought the Ijest-natured man in Pompeii,
stared in surprise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely
spoke for fear of distiu'bing his features, ejacidated
" Hercle ! " The parasite Clodius muttered " ^depol !"
and the sixth banqueter, who was the umbra of Clo-
dius,* and whose duty it was to echo his richer friend
when he coidd not praise liim — the parasite of a para-
site— muttered also "xEdepol !"

" Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles ; Ave
( rreeks are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar I —
the rapture of a true Grecian game — the enudation of
man against man — the generous strife — the half-mourn-
ful triumph — so proud to contend with a noble foe, so
sad to see him overcome ! But ye understand me not."

" The kid is excellent," said Sallust. The slave,
whose duty it was to carve, and who "V'alued himself
(in liis science, had just performed that office on the
kid to the sound of music, his knife keeping time, be-
ginning with a low tenor, and accomplisliing the ardu-
ous feat amidst a magnificent diapason.

" Your cook is, of course, from Sicily ] " said Pansa.

" Yes, of Syracuse."

" I will play you for him," said Clodius. " We will
have a game between the courses."

* See note (b) at the end.

36 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Better that sort of game, certainly, tlian a beast-
fight ; but I cannot stake my Sicilian : you have no-
thing so precious to stake me in return."

" My Phillida — my beautiful dancing-girl ! "

" I never buy women," said the Greek, carelessly
rearranging liis chaplet.

The musicians, who were stationed in the portico
without, had commenced their office with the kid ;
they now directed the melody into a more soft, a more
gay, yet it may be a more intellectual strain ; and they
chanted that song of Horace beginning, " Persicos
odi," &c., so impossible to translate, and which they
imagined applicable to a feast that, effeminate as it
seems to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous
revelry of the time. We are witnessing the domestic,
and not the princely feast — the entertainment of a
gentleman, not an emperor or a senator.

" Ah, good old Horace ! " said Sallust, compassion-
ately ; " he sang well of feasts and gii'ls, but not like
our modern poets."

" The immortal Fulvius, for instance," said Clodius.

" Ah, Fulvius, the immortal ! " said the umbra.

"And Spuraina; and Caius Mutius, who Avrote three
epics in a year — coidd Horace do that, or Yirgil
either]" said Lepidus. "Those old poets all fell into
the mistake of copying sculpture instead of painting.
Simplicity and repose — that Avas their notion ; but we
moderns have fire, and passion, and energy — we never
sleep, we imitate the colours of painting, its life, and
its action. Immortal Fulvius ! "

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 37

" By the way," said Sallust, " have you seen the new
ode hy SpiiTtena, in honour of our Egyptian Isis 1 It
is magnificent — the true religious fervour."

" Isis seems a fiivourite divinity at Pompeii," said
Glaucus.

" Yes ! " said Pansa, " she is exceedingly in repute
just at tliis moment ; her statue has been uttering the
most remarkable oracles. I am not superstitious, but
I must confess that she has more than once assisted me
materially in my magistracy ■w'ith her advice. Her
priests are so pious, too ! none of your gay, none of
your proud, ministers of Jupiter and Fortune : they
■walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass the greater part
of the night in solitary devotion ! "

" An example to our other priesthoods, indeed ! —
Jupiter's temple wants reforming sadly," said Lepidus,
who was a great reformer for all but himself.

" They say that jrVi'baces the Egyjitian has imparted
some most solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis,"
observed SaUust. " He boa-sts his descent from the.
race of Eameses, and declares that in his famdy the
secrets of remotest antiquity are treasured."

" He certainly possesses the gift of the eA'il eye,"
said Clodius. "If I ever come upon that Medusa
front withoiit the previous charm, I am sure to lose
a lavourite horse, or throw the canes* nine times run-
ning."

" The last would be indeed a miracle ! " said Sallust,
gravely.

* Canes, or Canicidce, the lowest throw at dice.

38 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

"How mean you, Sallusf?" returned the gamester,
with a flushed brow.

" I mean what you would leave me if I played often
with you ; and that is — nothing."

Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain.

" If Arbaces were not so rich," said Pansa, with a
stately air, " I should stretch my authority a little,
and inquire into the truth of the report which calls
him an astrologer and a sorcerer. Agrippa, when
aidile of Eome, banished all such terrible citizens.
But a rich man — it is the duty of an asdile to protect
the rich ! "

" AVhat think you of tliis new sect, which I am told
has even a few proselytes iii Pompeii, these followers
of the Hebrew God — Christus ? "

" Oh, mere speculative visionaries," said Clodius ;
" they have not a single gentleman amongst them ;
their proselytes are poor, insignificant, ignorant people ! "

" Who ought, however, to be crucified iov their
blasphemy," said Pansa, with vehemence ; " they deny
Venus and Jove ! Nazarene is but another name for
atheist. Let me catch them, that's all."

The second course was gone — the feasters fell back
on their couches — there was a pause while they listened
to the soft voices of the South, and the music of the
Arcadian reed. Glaucus was the most rajit and the
least inclined to break the silence, but Clodius began
already to think that they wasted time.

'^ Bnne vohis! (your health!) my Glaucus," said he,
quaffing a cup to each letter of the Greek's name, with

THE LAST PAYS OF POMPEII. 3!)

the ease of the practised drinker. " "Will you not l)e
avenged on your ill - fortune of yesterday ? See, the
dice courts us."

" As you will," said Glaucus.

" The dice in summer, and I an redile ! " * said Pansa,
magisterially ; " it is against all law."

" Xot in your presence, grave Pansa," returned
Clodius, rattling the dice in a long Lox ; " your pre-
sence restrains all licence : it is not the thing, but the
excess of the thing, that hurts."

" \'\niat wisdom ! " muttered the umbra.

" Well, I will look another way," said the a^dile.

" Xot yet, good Pansa; let us wait till we have
supped," said Glaucus.

Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation
with a ya-wai.

" He gapes to devoiu' the gold," whispered Lepidus
to Sallust, in a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus.

"Ah ! how well I know these polypi, who hold all
they touch ! " answered Sallust, in the same tone, and
out of the same play.

The third course, consisting of a variety of fniits,
pistachio - nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionery
tortured into a thousand fantastic and airy sha2)es, was
now placed upon th« table : and the ministri, or at-
tendants, also set there the wine (which had hitherto
been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of
glass, each bearing upon it the schedule of its age and
quality.

* See note (c) at tlie eud.

40 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,

" Taste this Lesbian, my Pansa," said Sallust ; " it
is excellent."

" It is not very old," said Glaiiciis, "but it has been
made precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the
fire : — the wine to the flames of Yidcan — we to those
of his wife — to whose honour I pour this cup."

" It is delicate," said Pansa, " but there is perhaps
the least particle too much of rosin in its flavoiu'."

"What a beautiful cup !" cried Clodius, taking up
one of transparent crystal, the handles of which were
wrought mth gems, and twisted in the shape of ser-
pents, the favoiu'ite fashion at Pompeii.

"This ring," said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel
from the first joint of his finger and hanging it on the
handle, " gives it a richer show, and renders it less un-
worthy of thy acceptance, my Clodius, on whom may
the gods bestow health and fortune, long and oft to
crown it to the brim ! "

" You are too generous, Glaucus," said the gamester,
handing the cup to his slave ; " but your love gives it
a double value."

"This cup to the Graces!" said Pansa, and he thrice
emptied his calix. The guests followed his example.

" We have appointed no director to the feast," cried
SaUust.

" Let us throw for liim, then," said Clodius, rattling
the dice-box.

" Nay," cried Glaucus, " no cold and trite director
for us : no dictator of the banquet ; no rex convivii.
Have not the Eomans sworn never to obey a king?

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 41

Shall "\ve be less free tlian your ancestors ? Ho !
musicians, let us have the song I composed the other
night : it has a verse on this subject, ' The Bacchic
hymn of the Hours.'"

The musicians struck their instruments to a ■wild
Ionic ail', while the youngest voices in the band
chanted forth, in Greek Avords, as numbers, the fol-
lowing strain : —

THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS.

I.
" Tlirough the summer daj', through the wearj' day,
We have glided long ;
Ere we speed to the Night through her portals grey,
Hail us with song ! —
With song, with song,
With a bright and joyous song ;
Such is the Cretan maid.

While the twilight made her bolder,
Woke, high through the ivy shade.

When the wine-god first consoled her.
From the hushed, low-breathing skies,
Half-shut looked their starry eyes.
And all around.
With a lo\'ing sound.
The ^gean waves were creeping ;
On her lap lay the Ijnix's head ;
Wild thyme was her bridal bed ;
And aye through each tiny space,
lu the green vine's green embrace,
The Fauns were slyly peeping ; —
The Fauns, the prying Fauns —
The arch, the laughing Fauns —
The Fauns were slyly peeping !

II.
nagging and faint are we

With our ceaseless flight,
And dull shall our journey be
Through the realm of uifcht.

42 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Bathe us, 0 bathe our weary wings
In the purple wave, as it freshly springs
To your cups from the fount of light —
From the fount of light — from the fount of light ;
For there, when the sun has gone down in night,
There in the bowl we find him.
The grape is the well of that summer sun,
Or rather the stream that he gazed lapon,
Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth,*
His soul, as he gazed behind him.

III.
A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love,

And a cup to the son of Maia ;
And honour with three, the band zone-free.

The band of the bright Aglaia.
But since every luid in the wTeath of pleasure

Ye owe to the sister Hours,
No stinted cups, in a formal measure,

The Bromian law makes ours.
He honours us most who gives us most,
And boasts, with a Bacchanal's honest boast.
He never will count the treasure.
Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings.
And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs ;
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume,
We'll scatter the spray round the garland's bloom.

We glow — we glow.
Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave
Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave
The prize of the Mysian Hylas,
Even so — even so.
We have caught the young god in our warm embrace.
We hurry him on in our laughing race ;
We hurry him on, with a whoop and song,
The cloudy rivers of night along —
Ho, ho ! — we have caught thee, Psilas ! "

The guests applauded loudly. When the poet is
your host his verses are sure to charm.

* Narcissus.

\

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 43

" Thoroughly Greek," said Lepidus : " the Ankiness,
force, and energy of that tongue, it is impossible to
imitate in the Eoman poetry."

" It is, indeed, a great contrast," said Clodius, ironi-
cally at heart, though not in appearance, " to the old-
fashioned and tame simplicity of that ode of Horace
which we heard before. The air is beautifully Ionic :
the words put me in mind of a toast — Companions, I
give you the beautiful lone."

" lone I — the name is Greek," said Glaucus, in a
soft voice. " I drinlc the health with delight. But
Avho is lone ? "

" Ah ! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you
woidd deserve ostracism for your ignorance," said Le-
pidus, conceitedly : " not to know lone is not to know
the chief charm of our city."

" She is of the most rare beauty," said Pansa ; " and
what a voice ! "

" She can feed only on nightingales' tongues," said
Clodius.

" K'ightingales' tongues I — beautiful thought !" sighed
the umbra.

" Enlighten me, I beseech you," said Glaucus.

" Know then " began Lepidus.

" Let me speak," cried Clodius ; " you drawl out
your Avords as if you spoke tortoises."

" And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to
himself, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.

" Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, " that lone
is a stranger who has but lately come to Pompeii. She

44 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

sings like Sapplio, and her songs are her ovm com-
posing ; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the
lyre, I know not in which she most ontdoes the ]\[uses.
Her beauty is most dazzling. Her house is perfect ;
such taste — such gems — such bronzes ! She is rich,
and generous as she is rich."

" Her lovers, of coui"se," said Glaucus, " take care
that she does not starve ; and money lightly won is
always lavishly spent."

" Her lovers — ah, there is the enigma ! lone has but
one vice — she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her
feet, and she has no lovers : she Avill not even marry."

" Ko lovers ! " echoed Glaucus.

" No ; she has the soid of Vesta, with the girdle of
Venus."

" What refined expressions ! " said the umbra.

" A miracle ! " cried Glaucus. " Can we not see
her ? "

" I will take you there this evening," said Clodius ;

" meanwhile ," added he, once more rattling the

dice.

" I am yours I " said the complaisant Glaucus.
" Pansa, timi your face ! "

Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the
umbra looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became
gradually absorbed in the chances of the dice.

" By Pollux ! " cried Glaucus, " this is the second
time I have thrown the canicidte " (the lowest throw).

•' Xow Venus befriend me ! " said Clodius, rattling
the box for several moments. " 0 Alma Venus — it is

THE LAST DAVS OF POMrEII. 45

Yenus herself ! " as ho threw the highest cast, named
from that goddess — whom he Avho wins money, indeed,
usually propitiates !

" Venus is ungrateful to me," said Glaucus, gaily ;
" I have always sacrificed on her altar."

" He who plays wdth Clodius," whispered Lepidus,
" will soon, like Plautus's Gurcidio, put his pallium for
the stakes."

" Poor Glaucus ! — he is as blind as Fortune herself,"
replied Sallust, in the same tone.

" I will play no more," said Glaucus ; " I have lost
thirty sestertia."

" I am sorry " began Clodius.

" Amiable man ! " groaned the umbra.

" j^ot at all ! " exclaimed Glaucus ; " the pleasure I
take in your gain compensates the pain of my loss."

The conversation now grew general and animated ;
the wine circulated more freely ; and lone once more
became the subject of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus.

" Instead of outwatching the stars, let us visit one at
whose beauty the stars grow pale," said Lepidus.

Clodius, who saw no chance of rencAving the dice,
seconded the proposal ; and Glaucus, though he civilly
pressed his guests to continue the banquet, could not
but let them see that his curiosity had been excited by
the praises of lone : they therefore resolved to adjourn
(all, at least, but Pansa and the umbra) to the house of
the fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to the health
of Glaucus and of Titua — they performed their last
libation — they resumed their slippers — they descended

46 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the stairs — passed the illumiued atriiun — and, walking
unbitten over the fierce dog painted on the threshold,
foiinel themselves beneath the light of the moon just
risen, in the lively and still crowded streets of Pompeii.

They passed the jewellers' quarter, sparkling with
lights, caught and reflected by the gems displayed in
the shops, and arrived at last at the door of lone. The
vestibide blazed with rows of lamps ; curtains of em-
broidered purple Inmg on either apertiu'e of the ta-
blinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement glowed with
the richest colours of the artist ; and under the portico
which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found
lone, abeady surrounded by adoring and applauding
guests !

"Did you say she was Athenian'?" whispered Glau-
cus, ere he passed into the peristyle.

" iSTo, she is from ISTeapolis."

" I^eapolis ! " echoed Glaucus ; and at that moment
the group, dividing on either side of lone, gave to his
view that bright, that nymph-like beauty, which for
months had shone down upon the waters of his memory.

CHAPTEll IV.

The temple of Isis — Its Priest — The Character of Arbaces
develoiDS itself.

The story returns to the Egyptian. "We left Arbaces
upon the shores of the noonday sea, after he had parted
from Ghiucus and his companion. As he approached
to the more crowded part of the bay, he paused, and
gazed upon that animated scene with folded arms, and
a bitter smile upon his dark features.

" Gulls, dupes, fools, that ye are ! " muttered he to
himself; " whether business or pleasure, trade or reli-
gion, be yoiu" pursuit, you are equally cheated by the
passions that ye should rule ! How I could loathe you,
if I did not hate — yes, hate ! Greek or Roman, it is
from us, from the dark lore of Egypt, that ye have_
stolen the fire that gives you souls. Your knowledge
— your poesy — your laws — your arts — your barbarous
mastery of war (all how tame and mutilated, when
compared Avith the vast original !) — ye have filched, as
a slave filches the fragments of the feast, from us ! And
now, ye mimics of a mimic ! — Romans, forsooth ! the
mushroom herd of robbers ! ye are our masters ! the
pyramids look down no more on the race of Eameses —

48 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the eagle cowers over the serpent of the N^ile. Our
masters — no, not mine. My soul, by the power of its
wisdom, controls and chains you, though the fetters
are unseen. So long as craft can master force, so long
as religion has a cave from which oracles can duj^e
mankind, the wise hold an empire over earth. Even
from your vices Arbaces distils his pleasures ;— pleasures
improfaned by vidgar eyes — pleasures vast, wealthy,
inexhaustible, of which your enervate minds, in their
iinunaginative sensuality, cannot conceive or dream !
Plod on, plod on, fools of ambition and of avarice !
your petty thii-st for fiisces and quoestorships, and all
the mummery of servile power, provokes my laughter
and my scorn. My power can extend wherever man
believes. I ride over the souls that the purple veils.
Thebes may fall, Egypt be a name ; the world itself
furnishes the subjects of Arbaces."

Thus saying, the Egyptian moved slowly on ; and,
entering the town, his tall figure towered above the
crowded throng of the forum, and swept toAvards the
small but graceful temple consecrated to Isis. *

That edifice was then but of recent erection ; the
ancient temple had been thrown doAvn in the earth-
quake sixteen years before, and the new building had
become as much in vogue with the versatile Pompeians
as a new chiu-ch or a new preacher may be with us.
The oracles of the goddess at Pompeii were indeed
remarkable, not more for the mysterious language in
which they were clothed, than for the credit which
* See note (d) at the end.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 49

was attached, to their mandates and predictions. If
they were not dictated by a divinity, they were framed
at least by a profound knowledge of mankind ; they
applied themselves exactly to the circumstances of in-
dividuals, and made a notable contrast to the vague and
I<:>ose generalities of their rival temples! As Arbaces
now arrived at the rails which separated the profane
i'rom the sacred place, a crowd, composed of all classes,
but especially of the commercial, collected, breathless
and reverential, before the many altars which rose in
the open court. In the walls of the cella, elevated on
seven steps of Parian marble, various statues stood
in niches, and those walls were ornamented with the
pomegranate consecrated to Isis. An oblong pedestal
occupied the interior building, on which stood two
statues, one of Isis, and its companion represented the
silent and mystic Orus. But the building contained
many other deities to grace the court of the Egyptian
deity : her kindred and many -titled Bacchus, and the
Cyprian Venus, a Grecian disguise for herself, rising
from her bath, and the dog-headed Anubis, and the ox
Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth form and
unknown appellations.

But we must not suppose that, among the cities of
Magna Grajcia, Isis was worshipped with those foi-ms
and ceremonies which were of right her own. The
mongrel and modern nations of the South, with a
mingled arrogance and ignorance, confounded the wor-
ships of all climes and ages. And the profound myste-

VOL. I. D

50 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

ries of the Nile were degraded by a hundred meretricious
and frivolous admixtures from the creeds of Cephisus
and of Tibur. The temple of Isis in Pompeii was
served by Eoman and Greek priests, ignorant alike of
the language and the customs of her ancient votaries ;
and the descendant of the dread Egyptian kings, beneath
the appearance of reverential awe, secretly laughed to
scorn the puny mummeries which imitated the solemn
and typical worship of his burning clime.

Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacri-
ficial crowd, arrayed in white garments, while at the
summit stood two of the inferior priests, the one hold-
ing a palm-branch, the other a slender sheaf of corn. In
the narrow passage in front thronged the bj^standers.

" And what," whispered Arbaces to one of the by-
standers, who was a merchant engaged in the Alexan-
drian trade, which trade had probably first introduced
in Pompeii the worship of the Egyptian goddess —
" What occasion now assembles you before the altars
of the venerable Isis 1 It seems, by the white robes of
the group before nie, that a sacrifice is to be rendered ;
and by the assembly of the priests, that ye are prepared
for some oracle. To what cpiestion is it to vouchsafe a
reply?"

" We are merchants," replied the bystander (who was
no other than Diomed) in the same voice, " who seek
to know the fate of our vessels, which sail for Alexandria
to-morrow. We are about to offer up a sacrifice and
implore an answer from the goddess. I am not one of
those who have petitioned the priest to sacrifice, as you

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 51

may see hy my dvess, hut I have some mterest in the
success of the fleet ; — hy Jupiter ! yes. I have a pretty
trade, else how covild I live in these hard times 1 "

The Egyptian replied gravely, — " That though Isis
Avas properly the goddess of agriculture, she was no
less the patron of commerce." Then turning his head
tOAvards the east, Arbaces seemed absorbed in silent
prayer.

And noAV in the centre of the steps appeared a priest
robed in Avhite from head to foot, the veil parting over
the crown ; two new priests relieved those hitherto
stationed at either corner, being naked half-way doAni
to the breast, and covered, for the rest, in white and
loose robes. At the same time, seated at the bottom of
the steps, a priest commenced a solemn au- upon a long
mnd-instrument of music. Half-way down the steps
stood another fiamen, holding in one hand the votive
wreath, in the other a white wand ; while, adding to the
picturesque scene of that Eastern ceremony, the stately-
ibis (bird sacred to the Egyptian worship) looked mutely
down from the wall upon the rite, or stalked beside the
altar at the base of the steps.

At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen.*

The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid
calm while the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to
be intent in pious anxiety — to rejoice and brighten as
the signs Avere declared faA^ourable, and the fire began
bright and clearly to consume the sacred portion of the

* See a singular picture, iii the Museiuii of XapleSj of an Egyptian
sacrifice.

52 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

victim amidst odours of myrrh and frankincense. It
was then that a dead silence fell over the whisjiering
crowd, and the priests gathered round the cella, another
priest, naked save by a cincture round the middle,
rushed forward, and, dancing with wUd gestures, im-
plored an answer from the goddess. He ceased at last
in exhaustion, and a low miu'muring noise was heard
within the body of the statue ; thrice the head moved,
and the lips parted, and then a hollow voice uttered
these mystic words : —

" There are waves like chargers that meet and glow.
There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below :
On the brow of the future the dangers lour,
But blest are your barks m the fearful hour. "

The voice ceased — the crowd breathed more freely —
the merchants looked at each other, " Nothing can be
more plain," nnu'mured Diomed ; " there is to be a
storm at sea, as there very often is at the beginning of
autumn, but our vessels are to be saved. 0 beneficent.
Isis ! "

" Lauded eternally be the goddess ! " said the mer-
chants : " what can be less equivocal than her predic-
tion 1"

Raising one hand in sign of silence to the people —
for the rights of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pom-
peians Avas an impossible suspense from the use of the
vocal organs — the chief priest poured his libation on
the altar, and after a short concluding prayer the cere-
mony was over, and the congregation dismissed. Still,
however, as the crowd dispersed themselves here and

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 53

there, the Egyptian lingered by the railing ; and when
the space became tolerably cleared, one of the priests,
approaching it, saluted him with great appearance of
friendly familiarity.

The countenance of the priest was remarkably iui-_
__prfipQSsessing — his shaven skull was^soTow and narrow
in the front as nearly to approach to the conformation
of that of an African savage, save only towards the
temples, Avhere, in that organ styled acquisitiveness by
the pxipils of a science modern in name, but best prac-
tically known (as their scidpture teaches us) amongst
the ancients, two huge and almost preternatural pro-
tuberances yet more distorted the unshapely head ; —
around the brows the skin was puckered into a web of
deep and intricate wrinkles — the eyes, dark and small,
roUed in a muddy and yellow orbit — the nose, short
yet coarse, was distended at the nostrils like a satyr's
— and the thick but pallid lips, the high cheek-bones,
the livid and motley hues that struggled through the
parchment skin, completed a countenance which none
could behold without repugnance, and few without
terror and distrust : whatever the wishes of the mind,
the animal frame was well fitted to execute them ; the
wiry muscles of the throat, the broad chest, the ner-
vous hands and lean gaunt arms, which were bare<l
above the elbow, betokened a form capable alike of
great active exertion and passive endurance.

" Calenus," said the Egyptian to this fascinating
flamen, " you have improved the voice of the statue
much by attending to my suggestion ; and your verses

54- THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

are excellent. Always prophesy good fortune, unless
there is an absolute impossibility of its fulfilment."

" Besides," added Calenus, " if the storm does come,
and if it does overAvhelm the accursed sliips, have we
not prophesied if? and are the barks not blest to be
at rest 1 — for rest prays the mariner in the ^gean Sea,
or at least so says Horace ; — can the mariner be more
at rest in the sea than when he is at the bottom of it 1 "

" Eight, my Calenus ; I wish Apa^cides would take
a lesson from your wisdom. But I desire to confer
with you relative to him and to other matters : you
can admit me into one of your less sacred apart-
ments 1 "

" Assuredly," replied the priest, leading the way to
one of the small chambers which siUTounded the ojien
gate. Here they seated themselves before a small
table spread with dishes containing fruit and eggs, and
various cold meats, with vases of excellent wine, of
which while the companions partook, a curtain, drawn
across the entrance opening to the court, concealed
them from view, but admonished them by the thin-
ijess of the partition to speak low, or to speak no
secrets : they chose the former alternative.

" Thou knowest," said Arbaces, in a voice that
scarcely stirred the air, so soft and inward was its
sound, " that it has ever been my maxim to attach
myself to the young. From their flexile and unformed
miiids I can carve out my fittest tools. I weave — I
warp — I mould them at my will. Of the men I make
merely followers or servants ; of the women -"

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 55

"Mistresses," said Calenus, as a livid gi'iu distorted
his ungainly features.

" Yes, I do not disguise it ; -woman is the main ob-
ject, the great a})iMtiti\ nf my souL As you feed the
%dctim for the slaugliter, / love to rear the votaries of
my pleasure. I love to train, to ripen theii- minds — to
unfold the sweet blossoiSrof their hidden passions, in
order to prepare the fruit to my taste. I loathe your
ready-made and ripened courtesans ; it is in the soft
and unconscious progi'ess of innocence to desire that
I find the true charm of love : it is thus that I defy
satiety ; and by contemplating the freshness of others,
I sustain the freslmess of my own sensations. From
the young hearts of my victims I draw the ingredients
of the caldron in which I re -youth myself But
enough of this ; to the subject before us. You know,
then, that in j^eapolis some time since I encountered
lone and Apiecides, brother and sister, the children of
Athenians who had settled at J^eapolis. The death of
their parents, who knew and esteemed me, constituted
me their guardian. I was not unmindful of the trust.
The youth, docile and mild, yielded readily to the
impression I sought to stamp upon him. !N"ext to
woman, I love the old recollections of my ancestral
land ; I love to keep alive — to propagate on distant
shores (which her colonies perchance yet people) her
dark and mystic creeds. It may be that it pleases me
to delude mankind, while I thus serve the deities. To
Apaecides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I unfolded
to him something of those sublime allegories which are

56 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

couched beneath her worship, I excited in a soul
peculiarly alive to religious fervoiu' that enthusiasm
which imagination begets on faith. I have placed him
amongst you : he is one of you."

" He is so," said Calenus : " but in thus stimulating
his faith, you have robbed him of wisdom. He is
horror-struck that he is no longer duped : our sage delu-
sions, our speaking statues and secret staircases, dismay
and revolt him ; he pines ; he wastes away ; he mut-
ters to himself; he refuses to share our ceremonies.
He has been known to frequent the comjjany of men
suspected of adherence to that new and atheistical
creed which denies all our gods, and terms our oracles
the inspirations of that malevolent spirit of which
Eastern tradition speaks. Our oracles — alas ! we know
well whose inspirations they are ! "

"This is Avhat I feared," said Arbaces, musingly,
"from various reproaches he made me when I last
saw hini. Of late he hath shunned my steps : I
must find him ; I must continue my lessons ; I must
lead him into the adytum of Wisdom, I niust_jteacli
him that there are two stages of sanctity — the firstj_
EAITH — the next, delusion ; the one for tlae vulgar,
the second for the sage,"

" I never passed through the first," said Calenus ;
" nor you either, I think, my Arbaces,"

" You err," replied the Egyptian, gravely. " I be-
lieve at this day (not indeed that which I teach, but
that which I teach not), K'ature has a sanctity against
which I cannot (nor woidd I) steel conviction, I be-

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 57

\
lieve in mine OAvn knowledge, and that has revealed to
me, — but no matter. Kow to earthlier and more in-
viting themes. If I thus fulfilled my object with
Aptecides, what was my design for lone 1 Thou know-
est already I intend her for my queen — my bride — my
heart's Isis. ^ever till I saw her kneAV I all the love
of which my nature is capalile."

" I hear from a tliousand lips that she is a second
Helen," said Calenus ; and he smacked his own lips, but
whether at the wine or at the notion it is not easy to
decide.

" Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never ex-
celled," resumed Arbaces. " But this is not all : she
has a soul worthy to match with mine. She has a
genius beyond that of woman — keen — dazzling — bold.
Poetry flows sjiontaneous to her lips : utter but a truth,
and, however intricate and profound, her mind seizes
and commands it. Her imagination and her reason
are not at war with each other ; they harmonise and
direct her course as the winds and the waves direct
some lofty bark. With this she unites a daring inde-
pendence of thought ; she can stand alone in the
world ; she can be brave as she is gentle ; this is the
nature I have sought all my life in woman, and never
found till now. lone must be mine ! In her I have
a double passion ; I wish to enjoy a beauty of spu'it as
of form."

" She is not yours yet, then 1 " said the priest.

" Xo ; she loves me — but as a friend : — she loves
me -with her mind only. She fancies in me the paltry

53 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

virtues which I have only the profoiinder virtue to
disdain. But you must pursue with me her history.
The brother and sister were young and rich : lone is
proud and ambitious — proud of her genius — the magic
of her poetry — the charm of her conversation. When
her brother left me, and entered your temple, in order
to be near him she removed also to Pompeii. She has
suffered her talents to be known. She summons crowds
to her feasts ; her voice enchants them ; her poetry
subdues. She delights in being thought the successor
of Ermna."

"Or of Sappho?"

" But Sappho without love ! I encouraged her in
this boldness of career — in this indidgence of vanity
and of pleasure. I loved to steep her amidst the dis-
sipations and luxury of this abandoned city. Mark
me, Calenus ! I desired to enervate her mind ! — it has
been too pure to receive yet the breath which I Avish
not to pass, Ijut burningly to eat into, the mirror. I
wished her to be surrounded by lovers hollow, vain,
and frivolous (lovers that her nature must despise), in
order to feel tlie want of love. Then, in those soft in-
tervals of lassitude that succeed to excitement, I can
weave my spells — excite her interest^attract her pas-
sions— possess myself of her heart. For it is not the
young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that should fas-
cinate lone ; her imagination must be won, and the
life of Arbaces has been one scene of triumph over the
imaginations of his kind."

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 59

" And hast tlion no fear, then, of thy rivals ? The
gallants of Italy are skilled in the art to please."

" K'one ! Her Greek soul despises the barbarian
Iiomans, and Avould scorn itself if it admitted a thought
of love for one of that upstart race."

" But thou art an Egyptian, not a Greek ! "

" Egypt," replied Arbaces, " is the niotlier of Athens.
Her tutelary IMinerva is our deity ; and her founder,
Cecrops, was the fugitive of Egyptian Sais. This have
I already taught to her ; and in any blood she A^ene-
rates the eldest dynasties of earth. But yet I will own
that of late some uneasy suspicions have crossed my
mind. She is more silent than she used to be ; she
loves melancholy and subduing music ; she sighs
without an outward cause. This may be the beginning
of love — it may be the want of love. In either case it
is time for me to begin my operations on her fancies
and her heart : in the one case, to divert the source of
love to me ; in the other, in me to awaken it. It is
for this that I have sought you."

" And how can I assist you 1 "

" I am about to invite her to a feast in my house : I
wish to dazzle — to bewilder — to inflame her senses.
Our arts — the arts by which Egypt trained her young
no\dtiates — must be employed ; and, under veil of the
mysteries of religion, I "vvoll open to her the secrets of
love."

"Ah! now I understand: — one of those voluptu-
ous banquets that, despite our didl vows of mortified

60 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

coldness, we, tliy priests of Isis, have shared at thy
house."

" !N"o, no ! Tliiiikest thou her chaste eyes are ripe
for such scenes 1 No ; but first we must ensnare the
brother — an easier task. Listen to me, while I give
you my instructions."

CHAPTEPt V.

More of tlie Flower-Girl — Tlie Progress of Love.

The sun shone gaily into that beautiful chamber in the
house of Glaucus, -which I have before said is noAV
called "the Room of Leda." The morning rays en-
tered through rows of small casements at the higher
part of the room, and through the door which opened
on the garden, that answered to the inhabitants of the
southern cities the same purpose that a greenhouse or
conser\-atory does to us. The size of the garden did
not adapt it for exercise, but the various and fragrant
plants with which it was filled gave a luxury to that
indolence so dear to the dwellers in a sunny clime.
And now the odours, fanned by a gentle wind creeping
from the adjacent sea, scattered themselves over that
chamber, whose walls vied with the richest colours of
the most glo^Wng flowers. Besides the gem of the
room — the painting of Leda and Tyndanis — in the
centre of each compartment of the walls were set
other pictures of exquisite beauty. In one you saw
Cupid leaning on the knees of Venus ; in another
Ariadne sleeping on the beach, unconscious of the per-

62 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

fitly of Theseus. Merrily the sunbeams played to and
fro on the tessellated floor and the brilliant walls — far
more happily came the rays of joy to the heart of the
young Glaucus.

" I have seen her, then," said he, as he paced that
narrow chamber — "I have heard her — nay, I have
spoken to her again — I have listened to the music of
her song, and she sung of glory and of Greece. I have
discovered the long-sought idol of my ch-eams; and like
the Cyprian scidptor, I have breathed life into my own
imaginings."

Longer, perhaps, had been the enamoured soliloquy
of Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the
threshold of the chamber, and a young female, still
half a child in years, broke upon his solitude. She
was dressed simply in a white tmiic, which reached
from the neck to the ankles ; under her arm she bore
a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she held a
bronze water-vase ; her features were more formed than
exactly became her years, yet they were soft and femi-
nine in their outline, and, without being beautiful in
themselves, they were almost made so by their beauty
of expression ; there was something ineffably gentle,
and you would say patient, in her aspect. A look of
resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had banished
the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips ; some-
thing timid and cautious in her step — something wan-
dering in her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction
which she had suffered from her birth : — she was
blind ; but in the orbs themselves there was no visible

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 63

defect — their melancholy and subdued Light was clear,
cloudless, and serene. " They tell me that Glaucus is
here," said she ; "may I come in?"

" Ah, my jSTydia," said the Greek, " is that you 1 I
knew you Avould not neglect my invitation."

"Glaucus did but justice to himself," answered
Nydia, with a blush ; " for he has always been kind to
the poor blind girl."

" Who coidd be otherwise 1" said Glaucus, tenderly,
and in the voice of a compassionate brother.

Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, "with-
out replying to his remark. " You have but lately
returned ? "

" This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at
Pompeii."

"And you are well? Ah, I need not ask — for who
that sees the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful,
can be ill?"

" I am well. And you, Xydia — how you have
grown ! Xext year you will be thinking what answer
to make your lovers."

A second blush passed over the cheek of JSTydia,
but this time she frowned as she blushed. " I have
brought you some flowers," said she, without replying
to a remark that she seemed to resent ; and feeling
about the room till she found the table that stood by
Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it : " they are poor,
but they are fresh-gathered."

"They might come from Flora herself," said he,
kindly ; " and I renew again my vow to the Graces,

64 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

that I Avill wear no other garlands while thy hands can
weave me such as these."

" And how find you the flowers in your vuidariuni ?
— are they thriving 1 "

" Wonderfullj^ so — the Lares themselves must have
tended them."

" Ah, now you give me pleasure ; for I came, as
often as I could steal the leisure, to water and tend
them in your absence."

" How shall I thanlc thee, fair iN'ydia 1 " said the
Greek. " Glaucus little dreamed that he left one
memory so watchful over his favourites at Pompeii."

The hand of the child trembled, and her breast
heaved beneath her tunic. She turned round in em-
barrassment. " The sun is hot for the poor flowers,"
said she, " to-day, and they will miss me ; for I have
been ill lately, and it is nine days since I visited them."

" 111, l^ydia ! — yet your cheek has more colour than
it had last year."

" I am often aUiiig," said the blind girl, touchingly ;
" and as I grow up, I grieve more that I am blind.
But now to the flowers ! " So saying, she made a
slight reverence with her head, and, passing into the
vmdarium, busied herself with watering the flowers.

" Poor ^ydia," thought Glaucus, gazing on her j
" thine is a hard doom ! Thou seest not the earth —
nor the sun — nor the ocean — nor the stars ; — above all,
thou canst not behold lone."

At that last thought his mind flew back to the past
evening, and was a second time distm-bed in its reveries

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 65

by the entrance of Clodius. It was a proof how much
a single evening had sufficed to increase and to refine
the love of the Athenian for lone, that whereas he had
confided to Clodius the secret of his first interview
mth her, and the effect it had produced on him, he
now felt an invincible aversion even to mention to him
her name. He had seen lone, bright, pure, unsullied,
in the midst of the gayest and most profligate gallants
of Pompeii, charming rather than awing the boldest
into respect, and changing the very nature of the most
sensual and the least ideal : — as by her intellectual and
refining spells she reversed the fable of Cu'ce, and con-
verted the animals into men. They who could net
understand her soul were made spiritual, as it were, by
the magic of her beauty ; — they who liad no heart for
poetry, had ears, at least, for the melody of her voice.
Seeing her thus surrounded, piuifying and brightening
aU things with her presence, Glaucus abnost for the
first time felt the nobleness of his own nature, — he felt
how unworthy of the goddess of his dreams had been
his companions and his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted
from his eyes ; he saw that immeasurable distance
between himself and his associates which the deceiving
mists of pleasure had hitherto concealed ; he was refined
by a sense of his courage in aspiring to lone. He felt
that henceforth it was his destiny to look' upward and
to soar. He coidd no longer breathe that name, which
sounded to the sense of his ardent fancy as something
sacred and divine, to lewd and \ailgar ears. She was

VOL. I. E

66 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

no longer the beautiful girl once seen and passionately
remembered, — she was abeady the mistress, the divi-
nity of liis soul. This feeling who has not experienced?
— If thou hast not, then thou hast never loved.

When Clodius therefore spoke to him in affected
transports of the beauty of lone, Glaucus felt only re-
sentment and disgust that such lips should dare to
praise her; he answered coldly, and the Eoman ima-
gined that his passion was cured instead of heightened.
Clodius scarcely regretted it, for he was anxious that
Glaucus should marry an heiress yet more richly
endowed — Julia, the daughter of the wealthy Diomed,
whose gold the gamester imagined he could readily
divert into his own coffers. Their conversation did not
How with its usual ease ; and no sooner had Clodius left
him than Glaucus bent his way to the house of lone.
In passing by the tlireshold he again encountered
Nydia, who had finished her graceful task. She knew
his step on the instant.

" You are early abroad?" said she.

"Yes; for the skies of Campania rebuke the slug-
gard who neglects them."

" Ah, would I could see them !" murmured the blind
girl, but so low that Glaucus did not overhear the com-
plaint.

The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few mo-
ments, and then, gmding her steps by a long staff,
which she used with great dexterity, she took her way
homeward. She soon turned from the more gaudy
streets, and entered a quarter of the town but little

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 67

loved by the decorous and tlie sober. But from tlie
low and rude evidences of vice around her she was
saved by her misfortune. And at that hour the streets
were quiet and silent, nor was her youthful ear shocked
by the sounds which too often broke along the ob-
scene and obsciu-e haunts she patiently and sadly tra-
versed.

She knocked at the back-door of a sort of tavern ; it
opened, and a rude voice bade her give an account of
the sesterces. Ere she could reply, another voice, less
vulgarly accented, said —

" Xever mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The
gud's voice will be wanted again soon at our rich friend's
revels ; and he pays, as thou knowest, pretty liigh for
his nightingales' tongues."

" Oh, I hope not — I trust not," cried ]S[ydia, trem-
bling ; " I Avdl heg from sumise to smiset, but send me
not there."

" And why f asked the same voice.

" Because — because I am young, and delicately born,
and the female companions I meet there are not fit
associates for one who — who "

" Is a slave in the house of Biu'bo," returned the
voice, ii'onically, and with a coarse laugh.

The Thessalian put down the flowers, and, leaning
her face on her hands, wept silently.

Meanwhile Glaucus sought the house of the beauti-
ful Neapolitan, He found lone sitting amidst her
attendants, who were at work around her. Her harp
stood at her side, for lone herself was unusually idle.

68 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

perhaps unusually thoughtful, that day. He thought
lier even more beautiful by the morning light, and in
her simple robe, than amidst the blazing lamps, and
decorated with the costly jewels of the previous night :
not the less so from a certain paleness that overspread
her transparent hues, — not the less so from the blush
that mounted over them when he approached. Accus-
tomed to flatter, flattery died upon his lips when he
addressed lone. He felt it beneath her to niter the
homage which every look conveyed. They spoke of
Greece ; this was a theme on which lone loved rather
to listen than to converse : it was a theme on which the
Greek could have been eloquent for ever. He de-
scribed to her the silver olive-groves that yet clad the
banks of Ilyssus, and the temples, already despoiled of
half then' glories — but how beautiful in decay ! He
looked back on the melancholy city of Harmodius the
free, and Pericles the magnificent, from the height of
that distant memory, which mellowed into one hazy
light all the ruder and darker shades. He had seen
the land of poetry chiefly in the poetical age of early
youth ; and the associations of patriotism were blended
with those of the flush and spring of life. And lone
listened to him, absorbed and mute ; dearer were those
accents, and those descriptions, than all the prodigal
adidation of her numberless adorers. Was it a sin to
love her countryman? she loved Athens in him — the
gods of her race, the land of her dreams, spoke to her
in his voice ! From that time they daily saw each
other. At the cool of the evening they made excur-

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 69

sions on the placid sea. By night they met again in
lone's porticos and hall. Tlieir love was sudden, hut
it was strong ; it filled all the sources of theu' life.
Hep,rt — hrain — sense — imagination, all were its minis-
ters and priests. As you take some obstacle from two
objects that have a mutual attraction, they met, and
united at once ; their wonder was, that they had lived
sei)arate so long. And it was natural that they shoiild
so love. Young, heautifid, and gifted, — of the same
hii'th and the same souls ; — there was poetry in their
very union. They imagined the heavens smiled upon
their affection. As the persecuted seek refuge at the
shrine, so they recognised in the altar of their love an
asylum from the sorrows of earth ; they covered it with
flowers, — they knew not of the serpents that lay coiled
behind.

One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at
Pompeii, Glaucus and lone, vnth a small party of chosen
friends, were retiu'ning from an excursion round the
bay ; their vessel skimmed lightly over the twilight
waters, whose lucid mirror was only broken by the
dripping oars. As the rest of the party conversed gaily
with each other, Glaucus lay at the feet of lone, and
he would have looked up in her face, but he did not
dare. lone broke the pause between them.

" My poor brother," said she, sighing, " how once
he would have enjoyed this hour ! "

" Yoixr brother ! " said Glaucus ; " I have not seen
him. Occupied with you, I have thought of nothing
else, or I shoidd have asked if that was not your

70 THE L.VST DAYS OF POMPEII.

brother for whose companionship you left me at the
Temple of Minerva, in NeapolLs 1 "

"It was."

" And is he here ? "

" He is."

" At Pompeii ! and not constantly Avith you 1 Im-
possible ! "

" He has other duties," answered lone, sadly ; " he is
a priest of Isis."

" So young, too ; and that priesthood, in its laws at
least, so severe ! " said the warm and bright-hearted
Greek, in surprise and pity. " "W^iat coidd have been
his inducement 1 "

" He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious
devotion; and the eloquence of an Egyptian — our
friend and guardian — kindled in bun the pious desire
to consecrate his life to the most mystic of oiu' deities.
Perhaps in the intenseness of his zeal, he found in the
severity of that pecidiar priesthood its peculiar attrac-
tion."

" And he does not repent his choice 1 — I trust he is

hapP5^"

lone sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her
eyes.

" I wish," said she, after a pause, " that he had not
been so hasty. Perhaps, like aU who expect too much,
he is revolted too easily ! "

" Then he is not happy in his new condition. And
this Egyptian, was he a priest himself ? was he inter-
ested in recruits tQ the sacred band? "

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 71

" No. His main interest was in our happiness. He
thought he promoted that of my brother. "We were left
orphans."

" Like myself," said Glaucus, with a deep meaning
in his voice.

lone cast do-v^oi her eyes as she resumed —

" And Ai'baces sought to supply the place of our
parent. You must know him. He loves genius."

'' Ai'baces ! I know him already ; at least we speak
when we meet. But for your j^raise I would not seek
to know more of him. My heart inclines readily to
most of my kind. But that dark Egyptian, with his
gloomy brow and icy smiles, seems to me to sadden the
very sun. One would think that, like Epimenides the
Cretan, he had spent forty years in a cave, and had
found something unnatural in the daylight ever after-
wards."

" Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and \dse, and
gentle," answered lone.

" Oh, happy that he has thy praise ! He needs no
other A-irtues to make him dear to me."

" His calm, his coldness," said lone, evasively pur-
suing the subject, " are perhaps but the exhaustion of
past suffermgs ; as yonder mountain (and she pointed
to Vesuvius), which we see dark and tranquil in the
distance, once nursed the fires for ever quenched."

They both gazed on the mountain as lone said these
words; the rest of the sky was bathed in rosy and
tender hues, but over that grey summit, rising amidst
the woods and vineyards that then clomb half-way up

72 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the ascent, there hung a black and ominous cloud, the
single frown of the landscape. A sudden and unaccount-
able gloom came over each as they thus gazed ; and in
that sympathy wliich love had already taught them, and
which bade them, in the slightest shadows of emotion,
the faintest presentiment of evil, tiu-n for refuge to each
other, their gaze at the same moment left the mountain,
and, full of unimaginable tenderness, met. "What need
had they of words to say they loved ?

CHAPTEE YI.

The Fowler snares again the Bird that had just escaped,
and sets his Nets for a new Victim.

Ix the history I relate, the events are cro-\vdecl and
rapid as those of the tbama. I ^^'rite of an epoch in
which days sufficed to ripen the ordinary fruits of
years.

Meanwliile Arhaces had not of late much frequented
the house of lone ; and when he had -visited her he
had not encountered Glaucus, nor knew he, as yet, of
that love which had so suddenly sprung up between
himself and his designs. In his interest for the brother
of lone, he had been forced, too, a little while, to sus-
pend his interest in lone herself. His pride and his
selfishness were aroused and alarmed at the sudden
change which had come over the spirit of the youth.
He trembled lest he himself should lose a docile pupil,
and Isis aji enthusiastic servant. Apaecides had ceased
to seek or to consult him. He was rarely to be found ;
he turned sullenly from the Egyptian, — nay, he fled
when he perceived him in the distance. Arbaces was
one of those haughty and powerful spirits, accustomed
to master others ; he chafed at the notion that one once

74 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

his own should ever ekide his grasp. He swore iiily
that Apascides shoiild not escape him.

It was ^vith this resokition that he passed tlirough
a thick grove in the city, which lay between his house
and that of lone, in his way to the latter ; and there,
leaning against a tree, and gazing on the ground, he
came unawares on the young priest of Isis.

" Apaecides ! " said he, — and he laid his hand affec-
tionately on the young man's shoulder.

The priest started, and his first instinct seemed to be
that of flight. " INIy son," said the Egyptian, " what
has chanced that you desire to shun me 1 "

Apa3cides remained silent and sullen, looking down
on the earth, as his kps quivered, and his breast heaved
with emotion.

" Speak to me, my friend," continued the Egyptian.
" Speak. Something burdens thy spirit. "What hast
thou to reveal 1 "

" To thee— nothing."

" And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential 1 "
" Because thou hast been my enemy."
" Let us confer," said Arbaces, in a low voice ; and,
drawing the reluctant arm of the priest in his own, he
led hun to one of the seats which ^veve scattered with-
in the grove. They sat down,- — and in those gloomy
forms there was sometliing congenial to the shade and
solitude of the place.

Apa'cides was in the spring of liis years, yet he
seemed to have exhausted even more of life than the
Egyptian ; his delicate and regular features were worn

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 75

and colourless ; his eyes were hollow, and shone witli
a brilliant and feverish glare ; his frame bowed pre-
matiu'ely, and in his hands, which were small to effe-
minacy, the blue and swollen veins indicated the lassi-
tude and weakness of the relaxed fibres. You saw in
his face a strong resemblance to lone, but the expres-
sion was altogether different from that majestic and
spiritual calm which breathed so divine and classical
a repose over Ms sister's beauty. In her, enthusiasm
was visible, but it seemed always suppressed and re-
strained; this made the charm and sentiment of her
countenance ; you longed to awaken a spirit which
reposed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apaicides
the whole aspect betokened the fervoiu* and passion of
liis temperament, and the intellectual portion of his
nature seemed, by the wild fire of the eyes, the great
breadth of the temples when compared with the height
of the brow, the trembling restlessness of the lips, to
be swayed and tjTannised over by the imaginative
and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped short
at the golden goal of poetry; with the brother, less
happy and less restrained, it had wandered into visions
more intangible and unembodied; and the faculties
which gave genius to the one threatened madness to
the other.

" You say I have been your enemy," said Arbaces.
I know the cause of that unjust accusation : I have
placed you amidst the priests of Isis — you are revolted
at their trickeries and imposture — you think that I
too have deceived you — the purity of your mind is

76 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

offended — you imagine that I am one of the deceit-
ful "

"You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,"
answered Apaecides; "why did you disguise them
from me? — When you excited my desu*e to devote
myself to the office whose garb I bear, you spoke to
me of the holy life of men resigning themselves to
knowledge — you have given me for companions an
ignorant and sensual herd, who have no knowledge
but that of the grossest frauds ; — you spoke to me of
men sacrificing the eartlilier pleasures to the sublime
cultivation of virtue — you place me amongst men
reeking with all the filthiness of vice ; — you spoke to
me of the friends, the enlighteners of our common
kind — I see but their cheats and deluders ! Oh ! it
was basely done !— you have robbed me of the glory of
youth, of the convictions of virtue, of the sanctifying
thirst after wisdom. Young as I was, rich, fervent,
the sunny j^leasures of earth before me, I resigned all
without a sigh, nay, with happiness and exidtation, in
the thought that I resigned them for the abstruse
mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companionship
of gods — for the revelations of Heaven — and now —

Convidsive sobs checked the priest's voice ; he
covered his face with his hands, and large tears forced
themselves tln-ough the wasted fingers, and ran pro-
fusely down his vest.

"What I promised to thee that wiD I give, my
friend, my pupil : these have been but trials to thy

THE LAST DAYS OF PO:MrEII. 77

virtue — it comes forth the "brighter for thy novitiate,
— think no more of those dull cheats — assort no more
"with those menials of the goddess, the atrienses* of
her hall — you are worthy to enter into the penetralia.
I henceforth vnR be your priest, your guide, and you
Avho now curse my friendship shall live to bless it."

The young man lifted up his head and gazed Avith a
vacant and wondering stare upon the Eg}^Dtian.

" Listen to me," continued Arbaces, in an earnest
and solemn voice, casting first his searching eyes around
to see that they Avere still alone. " From Egj^t came
all the knowledge of the world ; from Egypt came the
lore of "SHiehs, and tln' profnuud policy nf Crete ;
from Egy])t caiiu,' those early and mysterious tribes
which (long liclore the hordes of Eomulus swept over
the plains of Italy, and in the eternal cycle of events
drove back civilisation into barbarism and darkness)
possessed all the arts of wisdom and the graces of in-
'fellectual life. From Egypt came the rites and the
grandeur of that solemn Crere, whose inhabitants taught
their„iron vanquishers of Eome all that they yet
know of elevated in religion and sublime in worship.
And how deemest thou, young man, that that dread
Egypt, the mother of countless nations, achieved her
greatness, and soared to her cloud-capt eminence of
wisdom] — It was the result of a profound and holy
policy. Your modern nations owe their greatness to
Egypt — Egypt her greatness to her priests. Eapt in
themselves, coveting a sway over the nobler part of
* The slaves who had the care of the atrium.

78 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

man, his soul and liis Tbelief, those ancient ministers of
God were iuspu'ed with the grandest thought that
ever exalted mortals. From the revolutions of the
stars, from the seasons of the earth, from the round
and xuivarying circle of human destinies, they devised
an august allegory ; they made it gross and palpable
to the vidgar by the signs of gods and goddesses, and
that which in reality was Government Wicj named
Eeligiom Tsis is a fable — start not ! — that for which
Isis is a type is a reality, an immortal being ; Isis is
nothing. Mature, which she represents, is the mother
of all things — dark, ancient, inscrutable, save to the
gifted few. ' I^^one among mortals hath ever lifted up
my veil,' so saith the Isis that you adore ; but to the
wise that veil hath been removed, and we have stood
face to face with the solemn loveliness of Xatm'e.
The priests, then, were the benefactors, the civilisers of
mankind ; true, they were also cheats, impostors if
you will. But think you, young man, that if they
had not deceived their kind they coidd have served
them 1 The ignorant and servile vulgar must be
blinded to attain to their proper good; they would
not believe a maxim — they revere an oracle. The
Emperor of Eome sways the vast and various tribes of
earth, and harmonises the conflicting and disunited
elements ; thence come peace, order, law, the blessings
of life. Think you it is the man, the emperor, that
thus sways 1 — no, it is the pomp, the awe, the majesty
that surround hmi— these are his impostures, his de-
lusions ; our oracles and our divinations, our rites and

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 79

onr ceremonies, are the means of our sovereignty and
the engines of our power. Tliey are the same means
to the same end, the welfare and harmony of mankind.
You listen to me rapt and intent — the light begins to
dawn upon you."

Apa^cides remained silent, hut the changes rapidly
passing over his speaking countenance betrayed the
effect produced upon him by the words of the Egyptian
— words made tenfold more eloquent by the voice, the
aspect, and the manner of the man.

" While, then," resumed Arbaces, " our fathers of
the Nile thus achieved the first elements by whose life
chaos is destroyed — namely, the obedience and rever-
ence of the multitude for the few, they drew from
their majestic and starred meditations that wisdom
which was no delusion : they invented the codes and
regidarities of law — the arts and glories of existence.
They asked belief ; they returned the gift by ciiolisa-
tion. Were not their very cheats a virtue ! Trust me,
whosoever in yon far heavens of a diviner and more
beneficent nature look clown upon our world, smile
approvingly on the wisdom which has Avorked such
ends. But you A\ish me to apply these generalities to
yourself; I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of the
goddess of our ancient faith must be served, and served,
too, by others than the stoUd and soulless tilings that
are but as pegs and hooks whereon to hang the fillet
and the robe. Remember two saj-ings of Sextus the
Pythagorean, sayings borrowed from the lore of Egypt.
The fii'st is, ' Speak not of God to the multitude;' the

80 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

second is, ' The man worthy of^_G2£L.is^3' god among
men.' __As Genius gave to the ministers of Egypt wor-
ship, that empire in late ages so fearfully decayed, thus
by Genius only can the dominion be restored. I saw
in you, Apaecides, a pupil worthy of my lessons — a
minister worthy of the great ends which may yet be
wrought : your energy, your talents, yom* purity of
faith, your earnestness of enthusiasm, all fitted you
for that calling which demands so imperiously high
and ardent qualities ; I fanned, therefore, your sacred
desires ; I stimulated you to the step you have taken.
But you blame me that I did not reveal to you the
little souls and the juggling tricks of your companions.
Had I done so, Apaecides, I had defeated my o\sm.
object ; your noble nature would have at once revolted,
and Isis would have lost her priest."

Apaecides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued,
■without heeding the interruption.

" I placed you, therefore, without preparation, in
the temple ; I left you suddenly to discover and to
be sickened by all those mummeries which dazzle the
herd. I desired that you should perceive how those
engines are moved by which the fountain that refreshes
the world casts its waters in the air. It was the trial
ordained of old to all our priests. They who accustom
theaia£jx.es_ to the impostures of the vulgar, are left to
practise them — for those like you, whose higher natures
demand higher pursuits, religion opens more godlike
secrets. I am pleased to find in you the character I

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 81

had expected. You have taken the vows ; you cannot
recede. Advance — I will be your guide."

" And what wilt thou teach me, 0 singular and fear-
ful man 1 New cheats — new "

" No — I have thrown thee into the abyss of dis-
belief; I will lead thee now to the eminence of faith.
Thou hast seen the false types : thou shalt learn now
the realities they represent. There is no shadow,
Apcecides, without its substance. Come to me this
night. Your hand."

Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of
the Egyptian, Apajcides gave him his hand, and master
and pupil parted.

It was true that for Apsecides there was no retreat.
He had taken the vows of celibacy : he had devoted
himself to a life that at present seemed to possess all
the austerities of fanaticisntt without any of the con-
solations of belief. It was natural that he should yet
cling to a yearning desire to reconcile himself to an
irrevocable career. The powerful and profound mind
of the Egyptian yet claimed an empii-e over his young
imagination ; excited him with vague conjecture, and
kept him alternately vibrating between hope and fear.

]\Ieanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately
way to the house of lone. As he entered the tabli-
num, he heard a voice from the porticos of the peri-
style beyond, which, musical as it was, sounded dis-
pleasingly on his ear — it was the voice of the young
and beautiful Glaucus, and for the first time an invol-
VOL. I. F

82 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

imtary thrill of jealousy shot through the breast of the
Egyptian. On entering the peristyle, he found Glaucus
seated by the side of lone. The fountain in the odor-
ous garden cast up its silver spray in the air, and kept
a delicious coolness in the midst of the sultry noon.
The handmaids, almost invariably attendant on lone,
who with her freedom of life preserved tlie most deli-
cate modesty, sat at a little distance ; by the feet of
Glaucus lay the lyre on which he had been playing to
lone one of the Lesbian airs. The scene — the group
before Arbaces was stamped by that peculiar and
refined ideality of poesy Avhich we yet, not erroneously,
imagme to be the distinction of the ancients — the
marble columns, the vases of flowers, the statue, white
and tranquil, closing every vista ; and above all, the
two living forms, from which a sculptor might have
caught either inspiration or despair.

Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair
with a brow from which all the usual stern serenity
had fled ; he recovered himself by an effort, and slowly
approached them, but with a step so soft and ccholess,
that even the attendants heard him not, much less lone
and her lover.

" And yet," said Glaiicus, " it is only before Ave love
that Ave imagine that our poets have truly described
the passion ; the instant the sun rises, all the stars that
had shone in his absence vanish into air. The poets
exist only in the night of the heart ; they are nothing
to us when we feel the full glory of the god."

"A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus."

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 83

Both started, and recognised "behind the seat of lone
the cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian.

" You are a sudden guest," said Ghxucus, rising, and
with a forced smile.

" So ought all to he who know they are welcome,"
returned i\j.'baces, seating himself, and motioning to
Glaucus to do the same.

" I am glad," said lone, " to see you at length
together ; for you are suited to each other, and you are
formed to be friends."

" Give me back some fifteen years of life," replied
the Egyptian, " before you can place me on an ec[uality
with Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his
friendship ; but what can I give him ui return ] Can
I make to liim the same confidences that he Avould
repose in me — of banquets and garlands — of Parthian
steeds, and the chances of the dice 1 these jDleasures
suit his age, his nature, his career; they are ncit for
mine."

So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and
sighed ; but from the corner of liis eye he stole a
glance towards lone, to see how she received these
insinuations of the pursuits of her visitor. Her
countenance did not satisfy him. Glaucus, slightly
colouring, hastened gaily to reply. Xor was he, per-
haps, without the wish in his turn to disconcert and
abasli the Egyptian,

" You are right, wise Arbaces," said he ; " we can
esteem each other, but we caimot be friends. My
banquets lack the secret salt, which, according to

84 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

rumour, gives such zest to your own. And, by Her-
cules ! when I liave reached your age, if I, hke you,
may think it wise to pursue the pleasures of manhood,
like you, I shall be doubtless sarcastic on the gallantries
of youtk "

The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a
sudden and piercing glance.

" I do not understand you," said he ; " but it is the
custom to consider that wit lies in obscurity." He
turned from Glaucus as he spoke, with a scarcely per-
ceptible sneer of contempt, and after a moment's pause
addressed himself to lone. " I have not, beautiful
lone," said he, " been fortunate enough to find you
within doors the last two or three times that I have
visited your vestibule."

" The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much
from home," replied lone, with a little embarrassment.

The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces ; but,
without seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile,
" You know the old poet says, that ' Women should
keep witliin doors, and there converse.' " *

" The poet was a cynic," said Glaucus, " and hated
women."

" He spake according to the customs of his covmtry,
and that country is your boasted Greece."

"JDo idilferent_p_erjods different customs. Had our
forefathers known lone, they had made a different law."

"Did you learn these pretty gallantries at IJome?"
said Arbaces, Avith ill-suppressed emotion.

* Eurii^ides.

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 85

" One certainly would net 'j^o for gallantries to
Egypt," retorted Glaucus, playing carelessly with liis
chain.

" Come, come," said lone, hastening to interrnpt a
conversation, wliicli she saw, to her gTeat distress, was
so little likely to cement the intimacy she had desired
to effect between Glaucus and her friend. " Arbaces
must not be so hard upon his poor pupil. An orphan,
and without a mother's care, I may be to blame for
the independent and almost mascidine liberty of Hfe
that I have chosen : yet it is not greater than the
Eoman women are accustomed to — it is not greater
than the Grecian ought to be. Alas ! is it only to be
among 77ien that freedom and vu'tue are to be deemed
united'? VTlij should the slavery that destroys you
be considered the oidy method to preserve us 1 Ah !
believe me, it has been the great error of men — and
one that has worked bitterly on their destinies — to
imagine that the nature of Avomen is (I \fiR not say
inferior, that may be so, but) so different from their
own, in making laAvs unfavourable to the intellectual
advancement of women. Have they not, in so doing,
made laws against their children, whom women are to
rear? — against the husbands, of whom women are to
be the friends, nay, sometimes the advisers'?" lone
stopped short suddenly, and her fiice was suffused with
the most enchanting blushes. She feared lest her en-
thusiasm had led her too far ; yet she feared the aus-
tere Arbaces less than the courteous Glaucus, for she
loved the last, and it was not the custom of the Greeks

86 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

to allow their women (at least sucli of their women as
they most honoured) the same liberty and the same
station as those of Italy enjoyed. She felt, therefore,
a thrill of delight as Glaiicus earnestly rejilied —

" Ever mayst thou think thus, lone — ever be your
pure heart your unerring guide ! Happy it had been
for Greece if she had given to the chaste the same in-
tellectual charms that are so celebrated amongst the
less worthy of her women. Xo state falls from free-
dom, from knowledge, while your sex smile only on
the free, and by appreciating, encourage the wise."

Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to
sanction the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn
that of lone ; and, after a short and embarrassed con-
versation, Glaucus took his leave of lone.

"Wlien he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer
to the fair Neapolitan's, said in those bland and sub-
dued tones, in which he knew so weU how to veil the
mingled art and fierceness of his character —

" Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you,
that I wish to shackle that liberty you adorn while
you assume : but which, if not greater, as you rightly
observe, than that possessed by the Eoman women,
must at least be accompanied by great circumspection,
when arrogated by one unmarried. Continue to draw
crowds of the gay, the brilliant, the wise themselves,
to your feet — continue to charm them with the con-
versation of an Aspasia, the music of an Erinna — but
reflect, at least, on those censorious tongues which can
so easily blight the tender reputation of a maiden ; and

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 87

while you provoke admiration, give, I beseech you, no
victory to envy."

" ^Vhat mean you, Arbaces ?" said lone, in an alarmed
and trembling '\'oice : " I knovr you are my friend, that
you desire only my honour and my Avelfere. What is it
you -would say 1"

" Your friend — ah, how sincerely ! May I speak then
as a friend, "odthout reserve and without offence 1 "

" I beseech you do so."

" This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou
know him 1 Hast thou seen him often 1 " And as
Arbaces spoke, he fixed his gaze steadfastly upon loue,
as if he sought to penetrate into her soid.

Eecoiling before that gaze, Avith a strange fear which
she could not explain, the A^eapoHtan answered with
confusion and hesitation — " He was brought to my
house as a countrjTnan of my father's, and I may say of
mine. I have known him only within this last week
or so : but why these questions?"

" Forgive me," said Arbaces ; " I thought you might
have knoAvn him longer. Base insinuator that he is I"

" How ! what mean you 1 VTiij that term 1 "

" It matters not : let me not rouse your indignation
against one who does not deserve so graA'e an honour."

"I implore you speak. AYhat has Glaucus insinuated 1
or rather, in what do you suppose he has offended?"

Smothering liis resentment at the last part of lone's
question, Arbaces continued — " You know his pursuits,
his companions, his habits ; the comissatio and the alea
(the revel and the dice) make his occupation ; — and

88 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

amongst the associates of dice how can he dream of
virtue]"

" Still you speak riddles. By the gods ! I entreat
you, say the worst at once."

" Well, then, it must be so. Know, my lone, that
it was but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly — yes,
in the public baths, of your love to him. He said it
amused him to take advantage of it. Nay, I A\dll do
him justice, he praised your beauty. Who coidd deny
if? But he laughed scornfully when his Clodius, or
liis Lepidus, asked him if he loved you enough for
marriage, and Avhen he purposed to adorn his door-
posts with flowers f

"Impossible! How heard you this base slander 1"

" K'ay, would you have lue to relate to you all the
comments of the insolent coxcombs with which the
story has circled through the town 1 Be assured that
I myself disbelieved at first, and that I have noAv pain-
fully been convinced by several ear-witnesses of the
truth of wliat I have reluctantly told thee."

lone sank back, and her face was whiter than the
pillar against which she leaned for support.

" I own it vexed, it irritated me to hear your name
thus lightly pitched from lip to lip, hke some mere
dancing-girl's fame. I hastened this morning to seek
and to warn you. I found Glaucus here. I was stung
from my self-possession. I coidd not conceal my feel-
ings ; nay, I was uncourteous in thy presence. Canst
thou forgive thy friend, lonel"

lone placed her hand in his, but replied not.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 89

" Tliink no more of this," said he ; " but let it be a
warning voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot
requires. It cannot hurt thee, lone, for a moment ;
for a gay thing like this coidd never have been honoured
by even a serious thought from lone. These insults
only wound when they come from one we love ; far
different indeed is he whom the lofty lone shall stoop
to love."

" Love ! " muttered lone, with an hysterical laugh.
" Ay, indeed."

It is not without interest to observe in those remote
times, and under a social system so widely different
from the modern, the same small causes that ruffle and
interrupt the " course of love," wliich operate so com-
monly at this day ; — the same inventive jealousy, the
same cunning slander, the same crafty and falnicated
retailings of petty gossip, which so often now suffice to
break the ties of the truest love, and counteract the tenor
of circumstances most apparently propitious. "When
the bark saUs on over the smoothest wave, the fable
tells us of the diminutive fish that can cling to the keel
and arrest its progress : so is it ever with the great
passions of mankind ; and we shoidd paint life but ill,
if, even in times the most prodigal of romance, and of
the romance of wliich we most largely avail ourselves,
we did not also describe the mechanism of those tri\-ial
and household springs of mischief which we see every
day at work in our chambers and at our hearths. It is
in these, the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly find
oiu^selves at home with the past.

90 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Most cunningly liad the Egyptian appealed to lone's
ruling foible — most dexterously had he applied the
poisoned dart to her pride. He fancied he had arrested
what he hoped, from the shortness of the time she had
knoAvn Glaucus, was, at most, but an incipient fancy ;
and hastening to change the subject, he now led her to
talk of her brother. Their conversation did not last
long. He left her, resolved not again to trust so much
to absence, but to visit — to watch her — every day.

No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence,
than woman's pride — her sex's dissimidation — deserted
his intended victim, and the haughty lone burst into
passionate tears.

CHAPTEE YII.

The Gay Life of the Porupeiau Lounger— A Miniature Likeness of
the Eoman Baths.

"Whex Glauciis left lone, he felt as if he trod upon air.
In the interview Avith wliich he had just been blessed,
he had for the first time gathered from her distinctly
that his love was not unwelcome to, and wovdd not be
uiu-ewarded by, her. This hope filled him with a rap-
ture for Avhich earth and heaven seemed too narrow to
afford a vent. Unconscious of the sudden enemy he
had left behind, and forgetting not only his taunts but
his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay
streets, repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy,
the music of the soft air to which lone had listened
with such intentness ; and now he entered the Street
of Fortune, with its raised footpath — its houses painted
without, and the open doors admitting the view of the
glowing frescoes within. Each end of the street was
adorned with a triumphal arch : and as Glaucus now
came before the Temple of Fortune, the jutting portico
of that beautifid. fane (which is supposed to have been
built by one of the family of Cicero, perhaps by the
orator himself) imparted a dignified and venerable
feature to a scene otherwise more brilliant than lofty

92 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

in its character. That temj^le was one of the most
graceful specimens of Roman architecture. It was
raised on a somewhat lofty podium ; and between two
lliglits of steps ascending to a platform stood the altar
of the goddess. From this platform another flight of
broad stairs led to the portico, from the height of whose
fluted columns hung festoons of the richest flowers.
On either side the extremities of the temple were
placed statues of Grecian workmanship ; and at a
little distance from the temple rose the triumphal arch
crowned with an equestrian statue of Caligula, which
was flanked by troj)hies of bronze. In the space be-
fore the temple a lively throng were assembled — some
seated on benches and discussing the politics of the
empire — some conversing on the approaching spectacle
of the amphitheatre. One knot of young men were
lauding a new beauty, another discussing the merits of
the last play ; a third group, more stricken in age, were
speculating on the chance of the trade with Alexan-
dria, and amidst these were many merchants in the
Eastern costume, whose loose and peculiar robes,
painted and gemmed slippers, and comjjosed and seri-
ous countenances, formed a striking contrast to the
tunicked forms and animated gestures of the Italians.
For that impatient and lively people had, as now, a
language distinct from speech — a language of signs and
motions inexpressibly significant and vivacious ; their
descendants retain it, and the learned Jorio hath
written a most entertaining work upon that species of
hieroglyphical gesticidation.

I

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 93

Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found
himself amidst a group of his merry and dissipated
friends.

" Ah ! " said Sallust, " it is a histrum since I saw
you."

" And how have you spent the histrum 1 "What new
dishes have you discovered 1 "

"I have been scientific," returned SaHust, " and have
made some experiments in the feeding of lampreys ; I
confess I despau' of bringing them to the perfection
A\-hich our Eoman ancestors attained."

*' Miserable man ! and why 1 "

" Because," returned Sallust, with a sigh, " it is no
longer lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very
often tempted to make away with a very fat carptor
(butler) Avhom I possess, and pop him slily into the
reservoir. He would give the fish a most oleaginous
flavour ! But slaves are not slaves nowadaj's, and
have no sympathy with their masters' interest — or
Davus woidd destroy himself to oblige me ! "

" "What news from Rome 1 " said Lepidus, as he
languidly joined the gi'oup.

" The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to
the senators," answered Sallust.

" He is a good creature," cpioth Lepidus ; " they say
he never sends a man away without granting his re-
quest."

" Perhaps he would let mo kill a slave for my re-
servoir 1 " returned Sallust, eagerlj-.

" Xot milikely," said Glaucus ; " for he who grants

94 THE LAST DAYS OF rOMrEII.

a favour to one Iloman, must always do it at the ex-
pense of another. Be sure, that for every smile Titus
has caused, a hundred eyes have wept."

" Long live Titus ! " cried Pansa, overhearing the
emperor's name, as he swept patronisingly through the
crowd j " he has promised my brother a qusestorship,
because he had run tkrough his fortune."

" And wishes now to enrich himself among the
people, my Pansa," said Glaucus.

" Exactly so," said Pansa.

" That is putting the people to some use," said
Glaucus.

" To be sure," retiu-ned Pansa. " WeU, I must go
and look after the a^rarimn — it is a little out of repair 3"
and followed by a long train of clients, distinguished
from the rest of the throng by the togas they wore
(for togas, once the sign of freedom in a citizen, were
now the badge of ser\dlity to a patron), the adile
fidgeted fussily away.

" Poor Pansa ! " said Lepidus : "he never has time
for pleasure. Thank heaven I am not an sedile ! "

" Ah, Glaucus ! how are you 1 gay as ever ! " said
Clodius, joining the group.

" Are you come to sacrifice to Fortune 1 " said SaUust.

" I sacrifice to her every night," returned the
gamester.

" I do not doubt it. jS"o man has made more
victims ! "

" By Hercules, a biting speech ! " cried Glaucus,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 95

" The dog's letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,"
-aid Clodius, angi'ily: "you are always snarling."

" I may well have the dog's letter in my mouth,
since, whenever I play -nith you, I have the dog's
throw in my hand," returned Sallust.

" Hist ! " said Glaucus, taking a rose from a flower-
girl, who stood beside.

" The rose is the token of silence," replied Sallust ;
'•' but I love only to see it at the supper-table."

" Talking of that, Diomed gives a grand feast next
week," said Sallust : " are you invited, Glaucus 1 "

" Yes, I received an in\'itation this morning."

" And I, too," said Sallust, drawing a square piece
of papyrus from his girdle : " I see that he asks us an
hour earlier than usual : an earnest of something
sumptuous." *

" Oh ! he is rich as Croesus," said Clodius ; " and
his bill of fare is as long as an epic."

" Well, let us to the baths," said Glaucus : " this is
the time when all the world is there ; and Fidvius,
whom you admire so much, is going to read us his last
ode."

The young men assented readily to the proposal, and
they strolled to the baths.

Although the public therm?e, or baths, were insti-
tuted rather for the poorer citizens than the wealthy (for
the last had baths in their oAvn houses), yet, to the

* The Romans sent tickets of invitation, like the modems, speci-
fying the hour of the repast ; which, if the intended feast was to he
sumptuous, was earlier than usual.

96 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

crowds of all ranks who resorted to them, it was a
favourite place for conversation, and for that indolent
lounging so dear to a gay and thoughtless people. The
haths at Pompeii differed, of course, in plan and con-
structir)n from the vast and complicated thermae of
Itome ; and, indeed, it seems that in each city of the
empire there was always some slight modification of
arrangement in the general architecture of the public
haths. This mightily puzzles the learned, — as if archi-
tects and fashion were not capricious hefore the nine-
teenth century ! Our party entered hy the principal
porch in the Street of Fortune. At the wing of the
portico sat the keeper of the baths, with his two boxes
before him, one for the money he received, one for the
tickets he disj^ensed. Eound the walls of the portico
were seats crowded with persons of all ranks ; while
others, as the regimen of the physicians prescribed,
were walking briskly to and fro the portico, stopping
every now and then to gaze on the innumerable notices
of shows, games, sales, exhibitions, which were painted
or inscribed upon the walls. The general subject of
conversation was, however, the spectacle announced in
the amphitheatre ; and each new-comer was fastened
upon by a group eager to know if Pompeii had been so
fortunate as to produce some monstrous criminal, some
happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would
allow the pediles to provide a man for the jaws of the
lion : all other more common exhibitions seemed dull
and tame, Avhen compared with the possibility of tliis
fortiuiate occiu-rence.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 97

" For my part," said one jolly-looking man, who was
a goldsmitli, " I think the emperor, if he is as good as
they say, might have sent us a Jew."

" ^^^ly not take one of the new sect of l^azarenes 1 "
said a philosopher. " I am not cruel : but an atheist,
one who denies Jupiter himself, deserves no mercy."

" I care not how many ,u' nIs a man likos to llelie^'e
in," said the goldsmith; "hut to di-ny all u,ods is some^
thing monstrous."

'"HTet I fancy," said Glaucus, " that these people are
not absolutely atheists, I am told that they believe in
a God — nay, in a future state."

" Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus," said the philo-
sopher. " I have conferred with them — they laughed
in my face when I talked of Pluto and Hades."

"0 ye gods ! " exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror ;
'' are there any of these wretches in Pompeii 1 "

" I know there are a few : but they meet so pri-
"^'ately that it is impossible to discover who they are."

As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great
enthusiast in his art, looked after him admiringly.

" Ah ! " said he, " if we could get Jiim on the arena
— there would be a model for you ! AMiat limbs !
M-hat a head ! he ought to have been a gladiator ! A
subject — a subject — worthy of our art ! "VYliy don't
they give him to the lion 1 "

^leanwhile Pulvius, the Eoman poet, whom his con-
temporaries declared immortal, and who, but for this
history, woidd never have been heard of in our neglect-

VOL. I. G

98 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

ful age, came eagerly up to Glaucus : *' Oil, my Athe-
nian, my Glaucus, j'ou have come to hear my ode !
That is indeed an honour; you, a Greek — to whom the
very language of common life is poetry. How I thank
you ! It is but a trifle ; but if I secure your approba-
tion, perhaps I may get an introduction to Titus, Oh,
Glaucus ! a poet without a patron is an amphora with-
out a label ; the wme may be good, but nobody will
laud it. And what says Pythagoras 1 — ' Frankincense
to the gods, but praise to man.' A patron, then, is the
poet's priest : he procures him the incense, and obtains
him his believers."

" But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico
an altar in your praise."

" Ah ! the poor Pompeians are very civil — they love
to honour merit. But they are only the inhabitants of
a petty town — S2)ew meliora ! Shall we within. % "

" Certainly ; we lose time till we hear your poem."

At this instant there was a rush of some twenty
persons from the baths into the portico ; and a slave
stationed at the door of a small corridor now admitted
the poet, Glaucus, Clodius, and a troop of the bard's
other friends, into the passage.

"A poor place this, compared with the Eoman
thermal ! " said Lepidus, disdainfully.

"Yet is there some taste in the ceiling," said Glaucus,
who was in a mood to be pleased with everything ;
pointing to the stars which studded the roof.

Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid
to reply.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 99

They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber,
wMch served for the purposes of the apoditerium (that
is, a place where the bathers prepared themselves for
their luxurious ablutions). The vaulted ceiling was
raised from a cornice, glowingly coloured with motley
and grotesque paintings ; the ceiling itself was panelled
in white compartments bordered with rich crimson ;
the unsidlied and shining floor was paved with white
mosaics, and along the walls were ranged benches for
the accommodation of the loiterers. This chamber did
not possess the numerous and spacious window which
Vitruvius attributes to his more magnificent frigi-
darium. The Pompeians, as all the southern Italians,
were fond of banishing the light of their sultry skies,
and combined in their voluptuous associations the idea
of luxury with darkness. Two windows of glass* alone
admitted the soft and shaded ray; and the compart-
ment in which one of these casements was placed was
adorned with a large relief of the destruction of the
Titans.

In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a
magisterial air, and his audience, gathering roiuid him,
encouraged him to commence his recital.

The poet did not require much pressing. He drew

forth from his vest a roU of papyrus, and after hemming

three times, as much to command silence as to clear liis

voice, he began that wonderful ode, of which, to the

* The discoveries at Pompeii have controverted the long-estab-
lished error of the antiquaries, that glass windows were unknown to
the Romans— the use of them was not, however, common among
the middle and inferior classes in their private dwellings.

100 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

great mortification of the author of this history, no
single verse can be discovered.

By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy
of his fame ; and Glaucus was the only listener who did
not find it excel the best odes of Horace.

The poem concluded, those who took oidy the cold
bath began to undress ; they suspended their garments
on hooks fastened in the wall, and receiving, according
to their condition, either from their own slaves or those
of the thermai, loose robes in exchange, withdrew into
that graceful and circidar building which yet exists, to
shame the unlaving posterity of the south.

The more luxurious departed by another door to the
tepidarium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous
warmth, partly by a movable fireplace, principally by
a suspended pavement, beneath which Avas conducted
the caloric of the laconicum.

Here this portion of the intended bathers, after un-
robing themselves, remained for some time enjoying the
artificial warmth of the luxurious air. And this room,
as befitted its important rank in the long process of
ablution, was more richly and elaborately decorated
than the rest ; the arched roof was beautifully carved
and painted ; the windows above, of ground glass, ad-
mitted but wandering and uncertain rays ; below the
massive cornices were rows of figures in massive and
bold reHef ; the walls glowed with crimson, the pave-
ment was skilfidly tessellated in white mosaics. Here
the habituated bathers, men who bathed seven times a-
day, would remain in a state of enervate and speechless

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 101

lassitude, either before or (mostly) after the water-bath ;
and many of these \T.ctims of the pursuit of health
turned their listless eyes on the new-comers, recognising
their friends with a nod, but dreading the fatigue of
conversation.

From this place the party again diverged, according
to their several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which
answered the purpose of our vapour-baths, and thence
to the warm-bath itself; those more accustomed to
exercise, and capable of dispensing with so cheap a
purchase of fatigue, resorted at once to the calidariiun,
or water-bath.

In order to complete this sketch, and give to the
reader an adequate notion of this, the main luxury of
the ancients, we waU. accompany Lepidus, who regularly
underwent the whole process, save only the cold-bath,
which had gone lately out of fashion. Being then
gradually warmed in the tepidarium, which has just
been described, the delicate steps of the Pompeian
elegant were conducted to the sudatorium. Here let
the reader depict to himself the gradual process of the
vapour-bath, accompanied by an exhalation of spicy per-
fumes. After our bather had undergone this operation,
he was seized by his slaves, who always awaited him at
the baths, and the dews of heat were removed by a
kind of scraper, which (by the way) a modern traveller
has gravely declared to be used only to remove the dirt,
not one particle of which could ever settle on the
polished skin of the practised bather. Thence, some-
what cooled, he passed into the water-bath, over which

102 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

fresh perfumes were profusely scattered, and on emerg-
ing from the opposite part of the room, a cooling shower
played over his head and form. Then wrapping himself
in a light robe, he returned once more to the tepidarium,
where he found Glaucus, who had not encountered the
sudatorium ; and now the main dehght and extrava-
gance of the bath conunenced. Theh slaves anointed
the bathers from vials of gold, of alabaster, or of crystal,
studded with profusest gems, and containing the rarest
unguents gathered from all quarters of the world. The
number of these smegmata used by the wealthy would
fill a modern volume — especially if the volume were
printed by a ftishionable pubHsher ; Amoracinum, Mega-
lium, Nardum — omne qiiod exit in um : — while soft
music played in an adjacent chamber, and such as used
the bath in moderation, refreshed and restored by the
grateful ceremony, conversed with all the zest and fresh-
ness of rejuvenated life.

" Blessed be he who invented baths ! " said Glaucus,
stretching himself along one of those bronze seats (then
covered with soft cushions) which the visitor to Pompeii
sees at this day m that same tepidarium. " Whether
he were Hercules or Bacchus, he deserved deification."

" But tell me," said a corpident citizen, who was
groaning and wheezing under the operation of being
rubbed down, " tell me, 0 Glaucus — evil chance to thy
hands, 0 slave ! why so rough 1 — tell me — ugh ! ugh ! —
are the baths at Eome really so magnificent ? " Glaucus
turned, and recognised Diomed, though not without
some difficidty, so red and so inflamed were the good

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 103

man's cheeks by the sudatory and the scraping he had
so lately undergone. " I fency they must be a great
deal finer than these. Ehl" Suppressing a smile,
Glaucus replied —

" Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you
■will then form a notion of the size of the imperial
thermae of Eome. But a notion of the size only.
Imagine every entertainment for mind and body —
enumerate all the gymnastic games our fathers in-
vented— repeat all the books Italy and Greece have
produced — suppose places for all these games, admirers
for all these works, — add to tliis baths of the vastest
size, the most complicated construction — intersperse the
whole with gardens, "with theatres, with porticos, with
schools — suppose, in one word, a city of the gods, com-
posed but of palaces and public edifices, and you may
form some faint idea of the glories of the great baths of
Eome."

" By Hercules ! " said Diomed, opening his eyes,
" why, it would take a man's whole life to bathe ! "

" At Eome, it often does so," replied Glaucus,
gravely. " There are many who live only at the baths.
They repair there the first hour in which the doors are
opened, and remain till that in which the doors are
closed. They seem as if they knew nothing of the
rest of Eome, as if they despised all other existence."

" By Pollux ! you amaze me."

" Even those who bathe only thrice a-day contrive
to consume their lives in this occupation. Tliey take
their exercise in the tennis-court or the porticos, to pre-

104 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

pare them for the first hath; they lounge into the
theatre, to refresh themselves after it. They take their
prandium under the trees, and think over their second
bath. By the time it is prepared, the prandium is
digested. From the second hath they stroll into one
of the peristyles, to hear some new j)oet recite ; or into
the library, to sleep over an old one. Then comes the
supper, which they still consider but a part of the
bath ; and then a third time they bathe again, as the
best place to converse with thek friends."

" Per Hercle ! but we have their imitators at Pom-
peii."

" Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent
voluptuaries of the Eoman baths are happy ; they see
nothing but gorgeousness and splendour ; they visit
not the squalid parts of the city ; they know not that
there is poverty in the world. All nature smiles for
them, and her only frown is the last one which sends
them to bathe in Cocj'tus. Believe me, they are your
only true philosophers."

While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with
closed eyes and scarce perceptible breath, was under-
going all the mystic operations, not one of which he
ever suffered his attendants to omit. After the per-
fumes and the unguents, they scattered over him the
luxurious powder which prevented any further acces-
sion of heat : and this being rubbed away by the
smooth surface of the pumice, he began to indue, not
the garments he had put off, but those more festive
ones termed " the synthesis," Avith which the Eomans

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 105

marked their respect for the coming ceremony of sup-
per, if rather, from its hour (tliree o'clock in our
measurement of time), it might not be more fitly deno-
minated dinner. This done, he at length opened his
eyes, and gave signs of returning life.

At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long
yawn the evidence of existence.

" It is supper -time," said the epicure ; " you, Glau-
cus and Lepidus, come and sup -with me."

"Recollect you are all three engaged to my house
next week," cried Diomed, who was mightily proud of
the acquaintance of men of fashion.

" Ah, ah ! we recollect," said Sallust : " the scat of
memory, my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach."

Passing now once again into the cooler air, and so
into the street, our gallants of that day concluded the
ceremony of a Pompeian bath.

CHAPTEE VIII.

Arbaces Cogs liis Dice ^vith Pleasui-e, and Wins the Game.

The evening darkened over the restless city as
Apsecides took his way to the house of the Egyptian.
He avoided the more lighted and populous streets ; and
as he strode onward with his head bui'ied in his bosom,
and his arms folded within his robe, there was some-
thing startling in the contrast, which his solemn mien
and wasted form presented to the thoughtless brows
and animated au* of those who occasionally crossed his
path.

At length, however, a man of a more sober and
staid demeanour, and who had twice passed him with
a curious but doubting look, touched him on the
shoidder,

" Aptecides ! " said he, and he made a rapid sign
with his hands : it was the sign of the cross.

"Well, K'azarene," replied the priest, and his face
grew paler : " what wouldst thou ? "

" Nay," returned the stranger, " I would not inter-
rupt thy meditations ; but the last time we met I
seemed not to be so unwelcome."

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 107

" You are not unwelcome, Olinthus ; but I am sad
and -weary : nor am I able tliis evening to discuss Avith
you those themes which are most acceptable to you."

" 0 backward of heart ! " said Olinthus, with bitter
fervour ; " and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou
tiu-n from the very springs that refresh and heal? "

" 0 earth ! " cried the young priest, striking his
breast passionately, " from what regions shall my eyes
open to the true Olpupus, where thy gods really
dwell 1 Am I to believe with this man, that none
whom for so many centuries my fathers worshipped
have a being or a name? Am I to break down, as
something blasphemous and profane, the very altars
which I have deemed most sacred 1 or am I to think
with Arbaces — what 1 "

He paused, and strode rapidly away in the impatience
of a man who strives to get rid of himself. But the
K'azarene was one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthu-
siastic men, by whom God in all times has worked the
revolutions of earth, and those, above all, in the esta-
blishment and in the reformation of His own religion •
— men who were formed to convert, because formed
to endure. It is men of this mould whom nothing
discourages, nothing dismays ; in the fervour of belief
they are inspired and they inspire. Their reason first
kindles their passion, but the passion is the instrument
they use ; they force themselves into men's hearts, whUc
they appear only to appeal to their judgment. ISTothing
is so contagious as enthusiasm ; it is the real allegory of
the tale of Orpheus — it moves stones, it charms brutes.

]08 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity, and truth accom-
plishes no victories without it.

Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to
escape him. He overtook, and addressed him thus : —

"I do not wonder, Ap^ecides, that I distress you -,
that I shake all the elements of your mind : that you
are lost in doubt : that you drift here and there in the
vast ocean of uncertain and benighted thought. I
wonder not at this, but bear with me a little ; watch
and pray, — the darkness shall vanish, the storm sleep,
and God himself, as He came of yore on the seas of
Samaria, shall walk over the lulled billows, to the de-
livery of your soul. Oiirs is a religion jealous in its
demands, but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts ! It
troubles you for an hour, it repays you by immortality."

" Such promises," said Apsecides, sullenly, " are the
tricks by wliich man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious Avere
the promises which led me to the shrine of Isis ! "

" But," answered the Nazarene, " ask thy reason, can
that religion be sound which outrages all morality?
You are told to worship your gods. What are those
gods, even according to yourselves? What their ac-
tions, what their attributes? Are they not all repre-
sented to you as the blackest of criminals ? yet you are
asked to serve them as the holiest of divinities. Jujjiter
himself is a parricide and an adidterer. What are the
meaner deities but imitators of his vices ? You are told
not to murder, but you worship miuxlerers ; you are told
not to commit adidtery, and you make your prayers to
an adidterer. Oh ! what is this but a mockery of the

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 109

holiest part of man's nature, which is faith 1 Turn now
to the God, the one, the true God, to whose shrine I
would lead you. If He seem to you too sublime, too
shado-tty, for those human associations, those touching
connections between Creator and creature, to which the
Aveak heart clings — contemplate Him in His Son, who
put on mortality like ourselves. His mortality is not
indeed declared, like that of our fabled gods, by the
vices of our nature, but by the practice of all its virtues.
In Him are united the austerest morals with the ten-
derest affections. If He were but a mere man. He had
been worthy to become a god. You honour Socrates —
he has his sect, his disciples, liis schools. But what
are the doubtful virtues of the Athenian, to the bright,
the undisputed, the active, the unceasing, the devoted,
holiness of Christ? I speak to you now only of His
human character. He came in that as tlie pattern of
future ages, to show us the form of vu'tue which Plato
tliirsted to see embodied. This was the true sacrifice
that he made for man ; but the halo that encircled His
dying hour not only brightened earth, l)ut opened to
us the sight of heaven ! You are touched — you are
moved. God works in your heart. His Spirit is with
you. Come, resist not the holy impidse ; come at once
— unhesitatingly. A few of us are now assembled to
expound the word of God. Come, let me guide you to
them. You are sad, you are weary. Listen, then, to
the words of God ; — ' Come to me,' saith He, ' all ye
that are heaA'y laden, and I Avill give you rest ! '"
" I cannot now," saith Apsecides ; " another time."

110 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Now — now ! " exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and
clasping liini l^y the arm.

But Apfecides, yet unprepared for the renunciation
of that faith, that life, for which he had sacrificed so
much, and still haunted by the promises of the Egyp-
tian, extricated himself forcibly from the grasp ; and
feeling an effort necessary to conquer the irresolution
which the eloquence of the Clu^istian had begun to
effect in his heated and feverish mind, he gathered
up his robes, and fled away with a speed that defied
pursuit.

Breathless and exhausted, he arrived at last in a re-
mote and sequestered part of the city, and the lone
house of the Egyptian stood before him. As he paused
to recover himself, the moon emerged from a silver
cloud, and shone full upon the walls of that mysterious
habitation.

No other house was near : the darksome \anes clus-
tered far and wide in front of the building, and behind
it rose a copse of lofty forest - trees, sleeping in the
melancholy moonlight ; beyond stretched the dim out-
line of the distant hills, and amongst them the quiet
crest of Vesuvius, not then so lofty as the traveller
beholds it now.

Aptecides passed through the arching vines, and
arrived at the broad and spacious portico. Before it, on
either side of the steps, reposed the image of the Egj-p-
tian sphinx, and the moonlight gave an additional and
yet more solemn calm to those large, and harmonious,
and passionless features, in which the sculptors of that

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. Ill

tj'pe of wisdom united so much of loveliness witli awe;
half-way up the extremities of the steps darkened the
green and massive fohage of the aloe, and the shadow
of the eastern palm cast its long and unAvaving boughs
partially over the marble surface of the stairs.

Something there was in the stiUncss of the place, and
the strange aspect of the sculptui-ed sphinxes, which
thrilled the blood of the priest with a nameless and
ghostly fear, and he longed even for an echo to his
noiseless steps as he ascended to the threshold.

He knocked at the door, over Avhich was wroiight an
inscription in characters unfamiliar to his eye ; it opened
without a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slai^e, without
question or salutation, motioned to him to proceed.

The wide haU was lighted by lofty candelabra of
elaborate bronze, and round the walls were wrought
vast hieroglypliics, in dark and solemn colours, which
contrasted strangely with the bright hues and graceful
shapes with which the inhabitants of Italy decorated
their abodes. At the extremity of the hall, a slave,
whose countenance, though not African, was darker by
many shades than the usual colour of the south,
advanced to meet him.

" I seek Arbaces," said the priest ; but his voice
trembled even in his own ear. The slave bowed his
head in silence, and leading Aprecides to a wing with-
out the hall, conducted him up a narrow staircase, and
then traversing several rooms, in which the stern and
thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still made the chief
and most impressive object of the priest's notice, Ap^-

112 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

cides found liimself in a dim and half-lighted chamber,
in the presence of the Egyptian.

Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which
lay unfolded several scrolls of papyrus, impressed with
the same character as that; on the threshold of the
mansion. A small tripod stood at a little distance, from
the incense in which the smoke slowly rose. K'ear this
was a vast globe, depicting the signs of heaven ; and
upon another table lay several instruments, of curious
and quaint shape, whose uses were unknown to Apae-
cides. The farther extremity of the room was con-
cealed by a curtain, and the oblong windoAv in the roof
admitted the rays of the moon, mingling sadly with the
single lamp which burned in the apartment.

" Seat yourself, Apajcides," said the Egyptian, with-
out rising.

The young man obeyed.

" You asked me," resumed Arbaces, after a short
l^ause, in which he seemed absorbed in thought, — " you
asked me, or would do so, the mightiest secrets which
the soul of man is fitted to receive ; it is the enigma of
life itself that you desire me to solve. Placed like
children in the dark, and but for a little while, in this
dim and confined existence, we shape our spectres in the
obscurity ; our thoughts now sink back into ourselves
in terror, now wildly plunge themselves into the guide-
less gloom, guessing Avliat it may contain ; — stretching
our helpless hands here and there, lest, blindly, we
stumble upon some hidden danger ; not knowing the
limits of our boundary, now feeling them suffocate us

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 113

A^-itli compression, now seeing them extend far away
till they vanish into eternity. In tliis state all wisdom
eonsLsts necessarily in the solution of two questions —
' "V\Tiat are we to believe? and, "V\Tiat are we to reject? '
These questions you desire me to decide 1 "

Apaecides bowed his head in assent.

" Man must have some belief," continued the Egyp-
tian, in a tone of sadness. " He must fasten his hope
to something : it is our common nature that you inherit
when, aghast and terrified to see that in which you have
been taught to place your faith swept away, you float
over a dreary and shoreless sea of incertitude, you cry
for help, you ask for some plank to cling to, some land,
however dim and distant, to attain. "Well, then, listen.
You have not forgotten our conversation of to-day 1 "

" Forgotten ! "

"I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke
so many altars were but inventions. I confessed to you
that our rites and ceremonies were but mummeries, to
delude and lure the herd to their proper good. I ex-
plained to you that from those delusions came the bonds
of society, the harmony of the world, the power of the
wise ; that power is in the obedience of the vulgar. Con-
tinue we then these salutary delusions — if man must
have some belief, continue to him that which his fathers
have made dear to him, and which custom sanctifies and
strengthens. In seeking a subtler faith for us, whose
senses are too spiritual for the gross one, let us leave
others that support which crumbles from ourselves.
This is wise — it is benevolent."

VOL. I. H

114 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Proceed."

" This being settled," resumed the Egyptian, " the
old landmarks being left nninjiired for those whom we
are about to desert, we gird np our loins and depart to
new climes of faith. Dismiss at once from your recol-
lection, from your thought, all that you have believed
before. Suppose the mind a blank, an unwritten scroll,
fit to receive impressions for the first time. Look round
the world — observe its order — its regularity — its design.
Something must have created it — the design speaks a
designer : in that certainty we first touch land. But
what is that something 1 — A god, you cry. Stay — no
confused and confusing names. Of that which created
the world, we know, we can know, nothing, save these
attributes — power and unvarying regularity ; — stern,
crushing, relentless regularity — heeding no individual
cases — ^rolling — sweeping — burning on; — no matter
what scattered hearts, severed from the general mass, fall
groiuid and scorched beneath its wheels. The mixture
of evil vnth good — the existence of suffering and of
crime — in all times have perplexed the wise. They
created a god — they supposed him benevolent. How
then came this evU 1 why did he permit — nay, why
invent, why perpetuate it 1 To account for this, the
Persian creates a second spirit, whose nature is evU, and
supposes a continual Avar between that and the god of
good. In our own shadowy and tremendous Tj^phon
the Egyptians image a similar demon. Perplexing
blunder that yet more beAvHders us ! — folly that arose
from the vain delusion that makes a palpable, a corpo-

THE LAST DAYS OF POMTEII. 115

real, a liumaii being, of this unknown power — that
clothes the Invisible with attributes and a nature similar
to the Seen. No : to this designer let us give a name
that does not command our bewildering associations,
and the mystery becomes more clear— that name is
JSTecessitt. Necessity, say the Greeks, compels the
gods. Then why the gods 1 — their agency becomes
unnecessary — dismiss them at once. Necessity is the
ruler of all we see ; — power, regularity — these two
qualities make its nature. Woiild you ask more ? —
you can learn nothing : whether it be eternal — whether
it compel us, its creatures, to new careers after that
darkness which we call death — ^we cannot tell. There
leave we this ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and
come to that which, to our eyes, is the great minister
of its functions. This we can task more, from this we
can learn more : its evidence is around us — its name is
Nature. The error of the sages has been to direct
their researches to the attributes of Necessity, where
all is gloom and blindness. Had they confined their
researches to Nature — what of knowledge might we not
already have achieved 1 Here patience, examination,
are never directed in vain. We see what we explore;
our minds ascend a palpable ladder of causes and effects.
Nature is the great agent of the external universe, and
Necessity imposes upon it the laws by which it acts,
and imparts to us the powers by which we examine ;
those powers are curiosity and memory — their union
is reason, their perfection is wisdom. "VYell, then, I
examine by the help of these powers this inexhaustible

116 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

^Nature. I examine the earth, the air, the ocean, the
heaven : I find that all have a mystic sympathy with
each other — that the moon sways the tides — that the
air maintains the earth, and is the medium of the life
and sense of things — that by the knowledge of the stars
we measure the limits of the earth — that we portion
out the epochs of time — that by their pale light we are
guided into the abyss of the past — that in their solemn
lore we discern the destinies of the future. And thus,
while we know not that which IS'ecessity is, we learn,
at least, her decrees. And now, what morality do we
glean from this religion 1 — for religion it is. I believe
in two deities, N'ature and Necessity; I worship the last
by reverence, the first by investigation. What is the
morality my religion teaches 1 Tliis — all things are
subject but to general rules ; the sun shines for the joj
of the many — it may bring soitow to the few ; the night
sheds sleep on the multitude — but it harbours murder
as well as rest ; the forests adorn the earth — but shelter
the serpent and the lion ; the ocean supports a thou-
sand barks — but it engulfs the one. It is only thus
for the general, and not for the univei-sal benefit, that
Kature acts, and ^Necessity speeds on her aAvful course.
This is. the morality of the dread agents of the world —
it is mine, who am their creature. I would preserve
the delusions of priestcraft, for they are serviceable to
the multitude ; I would impart to man the arts I dis-
cover, the sciences I perfect ; I would speed the vast
career of civilising lore : — in this I serve the mass, T
fulfil the general law, I execute the great moral that

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 117

Xatiu'e preaches, For myself I claim the iiitlividual
exception ; I claim it for the wise — satisfied that my
individual actions are nothing in the great balance of
good and evil ; satisfied that the product of my know-
ledge can give greater blessings to the mass than my
desires can operate evU on the few (for the first can
extend to remotest regions and humanise nations yet
unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself free-
dom. I enlighten the lives of others, and I enjoy my
own. Yes ; oui' wisdom is eternal, but our Life is short :
make the most of it while it lasts. Surrender thy
youth to pleasure, and thy senses to delight. Soon
comes the hour when the wine-cup is shattered, and
the garlands shall cease to bloom. Enjoy while you
may. Be still, O Ap?ecides, my pupil and my follower !
I will teach thee the mechanism of Natiu'e, her darkest
and her wildest secrets — the lore which fools call magic
— and the mighty mysteries of the stars. By this shalt
thou discharge thy duty to the mass ; by this shalt
thou enlighten thy race. But I ^vill lead thee also to
pleasures of which the vulgar do not dream ; and the
tlay^which thou givest to men shall be followed by the
sweet night which thou surrenderest to thyself."

As the Egj'iDtian ceased there rose about, around,
beneath, the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or
Ionia ever perfected. It came like a stream of sound
bathing the senses tmawares ; enervating, subduing
A\'ith delight. It seemed the melodies of in\dsible
spirits, such as the shepherd might have heard in the
golden age, floating through the vales of Thessaly, or

118 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

ill tlie noontide glades of Paplios. The words which

had rushed to the lip of Apsecides, in answer to the

sophistries of the Egyptian, died tremblingly away.

He felt it as a profanation to break upon that enchanted

strain — the susceptibility of his excited nature, the

Greek softness and ardoui' of his secret soul, were

swayed and captured by surprise. He sank on the

seat with parted lips and thirsting ear ; while in a

chorus of voices, bland and meltiag as those which

waked Psyche in the halls of love, rose the followiag

song : — •

THE HYMN OF EROS.

"By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows,

A voice sailed trembling clown the waves of air ;
The leaves blushed brighter iu the Teian's rose,
The doves couched breathless in their summer lair ;

While from their hands the purple flowerets fell,
The laughing Hoiu-s stood listening in the sky ;—

From Pan's green cave to Ogle's* haunted cell,
Heaved the charmed earth in one delicious sigh.

' Love, sons of earth ! I am the power of Love !

Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos f bom ;
My smile sheds light along the courts above, ,

My kisses wake the eyelids of the Morn.

' Mine are the stars — there, ever as ye gaze.
Ye meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes ;

Mine is the moon — and, mournful if her rays,
'Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies.

' The flowers are mine — the blushes of the rose.

The violet-charming Zephyr to the shade ;
Mine the f^uick light tliat in the Maybeam glows,

And mine the day-tlream in the lonely glade.

The fairest of the Naiads. f Hesiod.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 119

' Love, sons of earth — for love is earth's soft lore,
Look where ye will — earth overflows with me ;
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the winds nestling on the hea\ing sea.

'All teaches love ! ' — The sweet voice, like a dream,

Melted in light ; yet still the airs above.
The waving sedges, and the whispering stream.

And the gi'een forest rustling, murmured ' LoVE ! ' "

As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized the
hand of Ap^cides, and led him, wandering, intoxi-
cated, yet half-reluctant, across the chamber towards
tlie curtain at the far end ; and now, from behind that
curtain, there seemed to burst a thousand sparklmg
stars ; the veil itself, hitherto dark, was now lighted
by these fires behind into the tenderest blue of heaven.
It represented heaven itself — such a heaven, as in the
nights of June might have shone down over the streams
of Castaly. Here and there were painted rosy and
aerial clouds, from which smiled, by the limner's art,
faces of divinest beauty, and on which reposed the
shapes of which Phidias and Apelles dreamed. And
the stars which studded the transparent azure rolled
rapidly as they shone, while the music, that again
woke with a Hvelier and a lighter sound, seemed to
imitate the melody of the joyous spheres.

" Oh ! what miracle is tliis, Arbaces ?" said Aprecides,
in faltering accents. " After having denied the gods,
art thou about to reveal to me "

"Their pleasures!" interrupted Ai-baces, in a tone
so different from its . usual cold and tranquil harmony
that Apeecides started, and thought the Egyptian him-

120 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

self transformed ; and now, as they neared the curtain,
a wild, a loud, an exulting melody burst from behind
its concealment. With that sound the veil was rent
in twain — it parted — it seemed to vanish into air : and
a scene, which no Sybarite ever more than rivalled,
broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youtlifid priest.
A vast banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing with
countless lights, which filled the warm ah' with ;he
scents of frankincense, of jasmine, of violets, of myrrh ;
all that the most odorous flowers, all that the most
costly spices could distil, seemed gathered into one
ineffable and andDrosial essence : from the light columns
that sprang upwards to the airy roof hung draperies of
white, studded with golden stars. At the extremities
of the room tAvo fountains cast up a spray, which,
catching the rays of the roseate light, glittered like
coi;ntless diamonds. In the centre of the room as
they entered there rose slowly from the floor, to the
sound of unseen minstrelsy, a table spread Avith all
the viands Avhich sense ever devoted to fancy, and
vases of that lost Myrrhine fabric,* so gloAving in its
colours, so transparent in its material, were croAvned
AAdth the exotics of the East. The couches to Avhich
this table Avas the centre, AA^ere coA'eretl Avith tapestries
of azure and gold ; and from invisible tubes in the
vaulted roof descended shoAvers of fragrant Avaters,
that cooled the delicious air, and contended AA^ith the
lamps, as if the spirits of AvaA^e and fire disputed

*\Vliich, however, was possibly the porceLain of China, — though
this is matter which admits of considerable dispute.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 121

which element could furnish forth the most delicious
odours. And noAV, from behind the snowy draperies,
trooped such forms as Adonis beheld "when he lay on
the lap of Venus. They came, some with garlands,
others with lyres ; they siUTOunded the youth, they
led his steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets
round him in rosy chains. The earth, the thought of
earth, vanished from his soul. He imagined himself
in a cb'eam, and suppressed his breath lest he should
wake too soon ; the senses, to which he had never
yielded as yet, beat in his burning pidse, and confused
his dizzy and reeling sight. And Avhile thus amazed
and lost, once again, but in brisk and Bacchic mea-
sures, rose the magic strain : —

ANACREONTIC.

" In the veins of the calix foams and glows
The IdIoocI of the mantling vine.
But oh ! in the bowl of Youth there glows
A Lesbium, more div-iue !
Bright, bright,
As the liquid light,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine I

Fill up, fill wp, to the sparkling brim,

The juice of the young LyiBu.s ; *
The grape is the key that we owe to him
From the gaol of the world to free us.
Drink, drink !
Wliat need to shrink,
When the lamps alone can see us ?

Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes
The wine of a softer tree ;

* Name of Bacchus, from Avw, to unbind, to release.

122 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Give the smiles to the god of the grape — thy sighs,
Beloved one, give to me.
Turn, turn,
My glances bum,
And thirst for a look from thee ! "

As the song ended, a group of tlxree maidens, en-
twined with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while
they imitated, might have shamed the Graces, advanced
towards him in the gliding measures of the Ionian
dance : such as the N'ereids ^vreathed in moonlight on
the yelloAv sands of the iEgean wave — such as Cytherea
taught her handmaids in the marriage-feast of Psyche
and her son.

Xow approaching, they -m-eathed their chaplet round
his head ; now kneeling, the youngest of the three
proffered him the bowl, from w^hich the wine of Lesbos
foamed and sparkled. The youth resisted no more, he
gi-asped the intoxicating cup, the blood mantled fiercely
through his veins. He sank upon the breast of the
nymph who sat beside him, and turning with s\\-im-
ming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in
the whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath
a canopy at the upper end of the table, and gazing upon
him with a smile that encom-aged him to pleasiu-e.
He beheld him, but not as he had hitherto seen, with
dark and sable garments, with a brooding and solemn
brow : a robe that dazzled the sight, so studded was
its whitest surface "wdth gold and gems, blazed upon
his majestic form ; white roses, alternated with the
emerald and the ruby, and sliaiied tiara-like, cro^vned
his raven locks. He a^jpearcd, like Ulysses, to have

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 123

gained the glory of a second youtli-^his features seemed
to have exchanged thought for beauty, and he towered
amidst the loveliness that surrounded him, in all the
beaming and relaxing benignity of the Olympian god.

"Drink, feast, love, my pupil!" said he; "blush
not that thou art passionate and young. That which
thou art, thou feelest in thy veins : that which thou
shalt be, survey !"

With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of
Ap93cides, following the gestiu'e, beheld on a pedestal,
placed between the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the
form of a skeleton.

" Start not," resumed the Egyptian ; " that friendly
guest admonishes us but of the shortness of life. From
its jaws I hear a voice that summons us to ex joy."

As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the
statue ; they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while
the cups were emptied and refilled at that glowing
board, they sang the following strain : —

BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,

Thou that didst drink and love :
By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,

But thy thought is ours above !
If memory yet can fly
Back to the golden sky,

And mourn the pleasures lost !
By the ruined haU these flowers we lay,

Wliere thy soul once held its palace ;
When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay.

124 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

And the smile was in the chalice.
And the cithara's silver voice
Could bid thy heart rejoice
When night eclipsed the day."

Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the
music into a quicker and more joyous strain : —

" Death, death, is the gloomy shore,

Where we all sail —
Soft, soft, thou gliding oar ;

Blow soft, sweet gale !
Chain with bright wreaths the Hours ;

Victims if all.
Ever 'mid song and flowers,

Victims should fall ! "

Pausmg for a moment, yet quicker and quicker
danced the silver-footed music : —

" Since Life's so short, well live to laugh,
Ah ! wherefore waste a minute ?
If youtli's the cup we yet can quaff.
Be love the pearl within it ! "

A third band noAV approached with brimming cups,
vvdiich they poiu'ed in libation upon that strange altar ;
and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful
melody : —

III.
" Thou art welcome. Guest of gloom.
From the far and fearful sea !
Wlien the last rose sheds its bloom,
Our board shall be spread with thee !

All hail, dark Guest !
Who liath so fair a jilea
Our welcome Guest to be.
As tliou, whose solemn hall
At last shall feast us all

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 125

In the dim and dismal coast ?
Long yet be v:e the Host !
And thou, Dead Shadow, thou.
All joyless though thy brow,

Thou — but our passing Guest ! "

At this moment, she who sat beside Aptecides sud-
denly took up the song ; —
n-.

" Happy is yet our doom.

The earth and the sun are ours !
And far from the dreary tomb

Speed the wings of the rosy Hours —
Sweet is for thee the bowl.

Sweet are thy looks, my love ;
I fly to thy tender soul,
As the bird to its mated dove !
Take me, ah, take !
Clasped to thy guardian breast.
Soft let me sink to rest :

But wake me — ah, wake !
And tell me with words and sighs,
But more with thy melting eyes.
That my sun is not set —
That the Torch is not quenched at the L^rn,
Tliat we love, and we breathe, and bum,
Tell me — thou lov'st me yet ! "

BOOK II.

CHAPTEE L

A Flash House in Pompeii, and the Gentlemen of the Classic
Ring-
To one of those parts of Pompeii, whicli were ten-
anted, not by the lords of pleasure, but by its minions
and its A'ictims — the haunt of gladiators and prize-
fighters, of the vicious and the penniless, of the
savage and the obscene — the Alsatia of an ancient
city — "we are now transported.

It was a large room, that opened at once on the
confined and crowded lane. Before the threshold was
a group of men, whose iron and well-strung muscles,
whose short and Herculean necks, whose hardy and
recldess countenances, indicated the champions of the
arena. On a shelf, without the shop, were ranged jars
of wine and oil ; and right over this was inserted in
the wall a coarse painting, which exhibited gladiators
drinking — so ancient and so venerable is the custom of
signs ! "Within the room were placed several small

128 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

tables, arranged somewhat in the modern fashion of
"boxes," and round these were seated several knots
of men, some drinking, some playing at dice, some at
that more skilful game called " duodecim scriptce"
which certain of the blnndering learned have mistaken
for chess, thougli it rather, perhaps, resembled back-
gammon of the two, and was usually, though not
always, played by the assistance of dice. The hour
was in the early forenoon ; and nothing better, perhaps,
than that unseasonable time itself, denoted the habi-
tual indolence of these tavern-loungers. Yet, de-
spite the situation of the house and the character of
its inmates, it indicated none of that sordid squalor
which would have characterised a similar haunt in a
modern city. The gay disposition of all the Pompei-
ans, who sought, at least, to gratify the sense even
where they neglected the mind, was typified by the
gaudy colours which decorated the walls, and the
shapes, fantastic, but not inelegant, in which the
lamps, the drinking-cups, the commonest household
utensils, were MTOught.

" By Pollux ! " said one of the gladiators, as he
leaned against the wall of the tlireshold, " the wine
thou sellest us, old Sdenus " — and as he spoke, he
slapped a portly personage on the back — "is enough
to thin the best blood in one's veins."

The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared
arms, white apron, and keys and napkin tucked care-
lessly within his girdle, indicated him to be the host of
the tavern, was already passed into the autumn of liis

THE LAST DAYS OF POMI'EII. 12!)

years ; but his form was still so robust aud athletic
that he might have shamed even the smewy shajDes
beside him, save that the muscles had seeded, as it
were, into flesh, that the cheeks were swelled and
bloated, and the increasing stomach threw into shadr
the vast and massive chest wliich rose above it.

" !N'one of thy scurrilous blusterings with me,"
growled the gigantic landlord, in the gentle semi-roar
of an insulted tiger ; " my wine is good enough for a
carcass which shall so soon soak the dust of the spoli-
arium."*

" Croakest thou tlius, old raven ! " returned the
gladiator, laughing scornfully ; " thou shalt live to
hang thyself witli desjiite when thou seest me Avin the
palm cro'mi ; and when I get the purse at the amphi-
theatre, as I certainly shall, my first vow to Hercules shall
be to forswear thee and thy vile potations evermore."

" Hear to him— hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices !
He has certainly served under Bombochides Clunin-
staridysarchides,"t cried the host. " Sporus, JSTiger,
Tetraides, he declares he shall win the purse from you.
Why, by the gods ! each of your muscles is strong
enough to stifle all his body, or / know nothing of the
arena !"

" Ha ! " said the gladiator, colouring with rising furj-,
" our lanista would tell a different story."

* Tlie place to whicli the killed or mortally wounded were dragged
from the arena.

t " Miles Gloriosus," Act I. ; as much as to say, in modern
Itlirase, " He has served under Bomliastes Furioso."

VOL. I. I

130 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" "What story could he tell against me, vain Lydon ?"
said Tetraides, frowaiing.

" Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights'?" said
the gigantic IsTiger, stalking up to the gladiator.

" Or mel" grunted Sporus, "udth eyes of fixe.

"Tush!" said Lydon, folding his arms, and regard-
ing his rivals with a reckless air of defiance. " The
time of trial will soon come ; keep your valour till
then."

" Ay, do," said the surly host ; " and if I press
down my thumb to save you, may the Fates cut my
tlu-ead ! "

" Your rope, you mean," said Lydon, sneeringly ;
" here is a sesterce to buy one."

The Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to
him, and griped it in so stern a vice that the blood
si^irted from the fingers' ends over the garments of the
bystanders.

They set up a savage laugh. .

" I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the
Macedonian with nie 1 I am no puny Persian, I war-
rant thee ! "VNHiat, man ! have I not fought twenty
years in the ring, and never lowered my arms once ?
And have I not received the rod from the editor's OAvn
hand as a sign of victory, and as a grace to retirement
on my laurels'? And I am now to be lectiu-ed by a
boy 1 " So saying, he flung the liand from him in scorn.

Without changing a nniscle, but with the same
smiling face with which he had previously taunted
mine host, did the gladiator brave tlie painfid gi-asp he

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 131

liad imclergone. But no sooner was liis hand released,
than, crouching for one moment as a wild cat crouches,
you might see his hair bristle on liis head and beard,
and with a fierce and sin-ill yell he sprang on the throat
of the giant, with an impetus that threw him, vast and
sturdy as he was, from liis balance ; and down, with
the crash of a fallen rock, he fell, wliile over him fell
also his ferocious foe.

Our host, perhaps, had had no need of the rope so
kindly recommended to him by Lydon, had he remained
three minutes longer in that position. But, summoned
to his assistance by the noise of his fall, a woman, who
had hitherto kept in an inner apartment, riished to the
scene of battle. This new ally was in herself a match
for the gladiator; she was tall, lean, and with arms
that could give other than soft embraces. In fact, the
gentle helpmate of Burbo the wine-seller had, like
himself, fought in the lists* — nay, under the emperor's
eye. And Biu-bo himself — Burbo, the unconquered in
the field, according to report, now and then yielded
the palm to his soft Stratonice. This sweet creature
no sooner saw the imminent perU that awaited her
worse half, than, without other weapons than those
with which Natiu'e had provided her, she darted upon
the incumbent gladiator, and, clasping him round the
waist with her long and snakelike arms, lifted him by
a sudden wrench from the body of her husband, leav-
ing only his hands still clinging to the throat of his

* Not ouly did women sometimes fight in the amphitheatres, iDiit
even those of noble birth participated in that meek ambition.

132 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

fiie. So have we seen a dog snatched by the hind legs
from the strife with a fallen rival in the arms of some
envious groom ; so have we seen one half of him high
in air, passive and offenceless — while the other half,
head, teeth, eyes, claws, seemed buried and engulfed
in the mangled and prostrate enemy. ^Meanwhile the
gladiators, lapped and pampered, and glutted upon
l)lood, crowded delightedly round the combatants —
their nostrils distended — their lijis grinning — their eyes
gloatingly fixed on the bloody throat of the one, and
the indented talons of the other.

^^ Hahet ! (he has got it !) hahet /" cried they, with
a sort of yell, rubl)ing their nervous hands.

" Noil, habeo, ye liars ; I have not got it !" shouted
the host, as with a miglity effort he wrenched hunself
from those deadly hands, and rose to his feet, breath-
less, panting, lacerated, bloody ; and fronting, with
reeling eyes, the glaring look and grinning teeth of his
liaffled foe, now struggling (but struggling with disdain)
in the gripe of the sturdy amazon.

"Fair play!" cried the gladiators; ''one to one:"
and, crowding round Lydon and the woman, they sepa-
rated our pleasing host from his courteous guest.

Eut Lydon, feeling ashamed at his present position,
and endeavouring in vain to shake off the grasp of the
virago, slij^ped his hand into his girdle, and drew forth
a short knife. So menacing was his look, so brightly
gleamed the blade, that Stratonice, Avho was used only
to that fashion of battle which we moderns call the
]uigilistic, started back in alarm.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 133

" 0 gods ! " cried she ; " the ruffian I — he has con-
cealed "weapons ! Is that fair 1 Is that like a gentle-
man and a gladiator'? Xo, indeed, I scorn such fel-
lows ! " AVith that she contemptuously turned her
hack on the gladiator, and hastened to examine the
condition of her hushand.

But he, as much inured to the constitutional exer-
cises as an English hull-dog is to a contest with a more
gentle antagonist, had abeady recovered himself. The
purple hues receded from the crhnson svu'face of his
cheek, the veins of the forehead retired into their
wonted size. He shook himself -svitli a complacent
grunt, satisfied that he Avas still alive, and then looking
at his foe from liead to foot with an air of more appro-
bation than he had ever bestowed upon him before —

" By Castor ! " said he, " thou art a stronger fellow
than I took thee for ! I see thou art a man of merit
and virtue ; give me thy hand, my hero ! "

" Jolly old Burho ! " cried the gladiators, applaud-
ing ; " stanch to the backbone. Give hLiu thy hand,
Lydon."

" Oh, to be sure," said the gladiator : " but noAv I
liave tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole."

" By Hercides ! " retm-ned the host, quite unmoved,
" that is the true gladiator feeling. PoUux ! to think
Avhat good training may make a man ; Avhy, a beast
could not be fiercer ! "

" A beast ! 0 dullard ! Ave beat the beasts holloAv 1 "
cried Tetraides.

" "Well, well," said Stratonice, Avho Avas noAv employed

134 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

in smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress, '' if ye
are all good friends again, I recommend you to be
quiet and orderly ; for some yoimg noblemen, your
patrons and backers, have sent to say they will come
here to pay you a visit : they msh to see you more at
their ease than at the schools, before they make up
their bets on the great fight at the amphitheatre. So
they always come to my house for that purpose : they
know we only receive the best gladiators in Pompeii —
our society is very select, praised be the gods ! "

" Yes," continued Burbo, di'inldng off a bowl, or
rather a pail of wine, " a man who has won my laurels
can only encourage the brave. Lydon, drink, my boy;
may you have an honourable old age like mine ! "

" Come here," said Stratonice, drawing her husband
to her affectionately by the ears, in that caress which
Tibullus has so prettily described — " Come here ! "

" Not so hard, she-wolf ! thou art worse than the
gladiator," miu-miux^l the huge jaws of Eurbo.

" Hist ! " said she, whispering him ; " Caleni:s has
just stole in, disguised, by the back way. I hope he
has brought the sesterces."

"Ho! ho! I will joia liim," said Bui'bo ; "mean-
while, I say, keep a sharp eye on the cups — attend to
the score. Let them not cheat thee, wife ; they are
heroes, to be sure, ])ut then they are arrant rogues ;
Cacus was notliing to them."

" Never fear me, fool I " was the conjugal reply; and
Burbo, satisfied with the dear assiu'ance, strode through
the apartment, and sought the penetralia of his house.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 135

" So those soft patrons are coming to look at our
muscles," said Niger. "Who sent to previse thee of
it, my mistress 1 "

" Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest
better in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus."

" A wager on a Avager," cried Tetraides ; " Clodius
bets on me, for twenty sesterces ! What say you,
Lydon?"

" He bets on me ! " said Lydon.

"No, on 77ie'" grunted Sporus.

" Dolts ! do you tliink he would prefer any of you
to Niger '2 " said the athletic, thus modestly naming
himself.

" Well, well," said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge
amphora for her guests, who had now seated them-
selves before one of the tables, " great men and brave,
as ye all tliinlc yourselves, which of you will fight the
Numidian lion in case no malefactor should be found
to deprive you of the option 1 "

"■ I who have escaped yoiu' arms, stout Stratonice,"
said Lydon, " might safely, I think, encomiter the
lion."

" But tell me," said Tetraides, " where is that pretty
young slave of yours — the blind girl, with bright eyes 1
I have not seen her a long time."

" Oh ! she is too delicate for you, my son of Nep-
tiuie," * said the hostess, " and too nice even for us,
I think. We send her into the town to sell flowers

* Son of Neptune — a Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious
fellow.

136 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

and sing to the ladies ; she makes us more money so
than she would hy waiting on you. Besides, she has
often other employments which lie imder the rose."

" Other employments ! " said Niger ; " why, she is
too young for them."

" SUence, beast ! " said Stratonice ; " you think there
is no play hut the Corintliian. If J^ydia were twice
the age she is at present, she would be equally fit for
Vesta — poor girl ! "

" But, hark ye, Stratonice," said Lydon ; " how
didst thou come by so gentle and delicate a slave?
She were more meet for the handmaid of some rich
matron of Eome than for thee."

" That is true," retiu'ned Stratonice ; " and some day
or other I shall make my fortune by selling her.
How came I by K'ydia, thou askest ? "

"Ay!"

"Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla — thou re-
memberest Stajjhyla, Niger?"

" Ay, a largedianded wench, with a face like a comic
mask. How should I forget her, by Pluto, whose hand-
maid she doubtless is at this moment ! "

" Tush, ])rute !— Well, Staphyla died one day, and a
great loss she was to me, and I went into the market to
buy me another slave. But, by the gods ! they were
all grown so dear since I had bought poor Staphyla,
and money was so scarce, that I was about to leave the
place in despair, when a merchant plucked me by the
robe. 'Mistress,' saiti he, 'dost thou want a slave
cheap 1 I have a child to sell — a bargain. She is but

THE L.VST DAYS OF POMPEII. 137

little, and almost an inlant, it is true ; but she is (|uick
and quiet, docile and clever, sings well, and is of good
blood, I assure you.' 'Of Avhat country]' said I.
' Thessalian.' Xiav I knew the Thessalians Avere acute
and gentle ; so I said I would see the girl. I found
her just as you see her now, scarcely smaller and
scarcely younger in appearance. She looked patient
and resigned enough, with her hands crossed on her
bosom, and her eyes downcast. I asked the merchant
his price : it was moderate, and I bought her at once.
The merchant brought her to my house, and disap-
peared in an instant. "Well, my friends, guess my
astonishment when I found she was blind ! Ha ! ha !
a clever fellow that merchant. I ran at once to the
magistrates, but the rogue was already gone from Pom-
peii. So I was forced to go home in a very ill
humour, I assure you ; and the poor girl felt the effects
of it too. But it was not her faidt that she was blind,
for she had been so from her birth. By degrees we
got reconciled to our purchase. True, she had not the
strength of Staphyla, and was of very little use in the
house, but she coidd soon find her way about the
to-\vn, as well as if she had the eyes of ^Vrgus ; and
when one morning she brought us home a handful of
sesterces, which she said she had got from selling some
flowers she had gathered in our poor little garden, we
thought the gods had sent her to us. So from that
time we let her go out as she likes, filling her basket
with flowers, which she -WTeathes into garlands after the
Thessalian fashion, which pleases the gallants ; and the

138 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

great people seem to take a fancy to her, for they
always pay her more than they do any other flower-
girl, and she brings all of it home to us, which is more
than any other slave would do. So I work for myself,
but I shall soon afford from her earnings to buy me a
second Staphyla ; doubtless, the ThessaKan kidnapper
had stolen the blind girl from gentle parents.* Besides
her skill in the garlands, she sings and plays on the

cithara, which also brings money ; and lately but

that is a secret."

" That is a secret ! What ! " cried Lydon ; " art
thou turned sphinx 1 "

" Sphinx, no — why sphinx 1 "

" Cease thy gabble, good mistress, and bring us our
meat — I am hungTy," said Sporus, impatiently.

" And I, too," echoed the grim jSTiger, whetting his
knife on the palm of liis hand.

The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon
returned mth a tray laden with large pieces of meat
half-raw ; for so, as now, did the heroes of the prize-
fight imagine they best sustained their hardihood and
ferocity : they drew round the table with the eyes of
famished wolves — the meat vanished, the wine flowed.
So leave we those important personages of classic life
to follow the steps of Biu'bo.

* The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloining
persons of birth and education ; they did not always spare those of
their o\\ti country. Aristophanes sneers bitterly at that people
(proverliially treacherous) for their unquenchable de.sii'e of gain by
this barter of llesh.

CHAPTEE II.

Two Worthies.

Ix tlie earlier times of Eome the priesthood ^vas a
profession, not of lucre but of honour. It "was em-
braced by the noblest citizens — it was forbidden to the
plebeians. Afterwards, and long previous to the pre-
sent date, it was equally open to all ranks ; at least,
that part of the profession which embraced the flamens,
or priests, — not of religion generally, but of peculiar
gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the Flamen DialLs),
preceded by a Hctor, and entitled by his office to the
entrance of the senate, at first the especial dignitary
of the patricians, was subsequently the choice of the
people. The less national and less honoured deities
were usually served by plebeian ministers ; and many
embraced the profession, as now the Eoman Catholic
Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from the
impulse of devotion than the suggestions of a calculat-
ing poverty. Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of
the lowest origia. His relations, though not his pa-
rents, were freedmen. He had received from them a
liberal education, and from his father a small patri-
mony, which he had soon exhausted. He embraced

140 THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII.

the priesthood as a last resource from distress. What-
ever tlie state emohiments of the sacred profession,
whicli at that time were probably small, the officers of
a popidar temple coidd never complain of the profits
of their calling. There is no profession so lucrative as
that Avhich practises on the superstition of the mul-
titude.

Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii,
and that was Burbo. Various dark and disreputable
ties, stronger than those of blood, united together their
hearts and interests; and often the minister of Isis
stole disguised and furtively from the supposed aus-
terity of his devotions ; — and gliding through the back
door of the retired gladiator, a man infamous alike by
vices and by profession, rejoiced to throw off the last
rag of an hypocrisy which, but for the dictates of
avarice, his ruling passion, would at all tiines have sat
clumsily upon a nature too bnital for even the mimicry
of vii'tue.

Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came
in use among the Eomans in proportion as they dis-
missed the toga, whose ample folds well concealed the
form, and in Avhich a sort of hood (attached to it)
afforded no less a security to the features, Calenus noAV
sat in the small and private chamber of the Avine-cellar,
whence a small passage ran at once to that back en-
trance, with which nearly all the houses of Pompeii
Avere furnished.

Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully
counting on a table between them a little pile of coins

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 141

which the priest had just poured from his purse, — for
purses were as common then as now, with this dilfer-
ence — they were usually Letter furnished !

" You see," said Calenus, " that we pay you hand-
somely, and you ouglit to thank me for recommending
you to so advantageous a market."

" I do, my cousin, I do," replied Burho, affection-
ately, as he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle,
which he then deposited in his girdle, drawing the
1)uckle round his capacious waist more closely than he
was wont to do in the lax hours of his domestic avoca-
tions. " And by Isis, Pisis, and Xisis, or Avliatever
other gods there may be in Egypt, my little Xydia is
a ver}' Hesperides — a garden of gold to me."

" She sings well, and plays like a muse," returned
Calenus ; " those are virtues that he who employs me
always pays liberally."

" He is a god," cried Burbo, enthusiastically; " every
rich man who is generous deserves to be worshipped.
But come, a cup of wine, old friend : tell me more
about it. What does she do 1 she is frightened, talks
of her oath, and reveals nothing."

" Xor Avill I, by my right hand ! I, too, have taken
that terrible oath of secrecy."

" Oath ! what are oaths to men like us 1 ''
" True oaths of a common fashion ; but this ! " —
and the stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. " Yet,"
he continued, in emptying a huge cup of immixed
wine, " I will ovm to thee that it is not so much the
oath that I dread as the vengeance of him who pro-

142 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

posed it. By the gods ! lie is a mighty sorcerer, and
could draw ray confession from the moon, did I dare
to make it to her. Talk no more of this. By Pollux !
wild as those banquets are which I enjoy with him, I
am never quite at my ease there. I love, my hoy, one
jolly hour with thee, and one of the plain, unsophisti-
cated, laugliing girls that I meet in this chamber, all
smoke-dried though it be, better than whole nights of
those magnificent debauches."

" Ho ! sayest thou so ? To-morrow night, please the
gods, we will have then a snug carousal."

" With all my heart," said the priest, rubbing his
hands, and draAving himself nearer to the table.

At this moment they heard a slight noise at the
door, as of one feeling the handle. The priest lowered
the hood over his head.

" Tush ! " whispered the host, " it is but the Ijlind
girl," as Nydia opened the door, and entered the a2)art-
ment.

" Ho, girl ! and how durst thou 1 thou lookest pale
— thou hast kept late revels ? ISTo matter, the young
must be always the yoixng," said Burbo, encouragingly.

The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of
the seats with an air of lassitude. Her colour went
and came rapidly : she beat the floor impatiently with
her small feet, then she suddenly raised her fcice, and
said, with a determined voice —

" Master, you may starve me if you Avill, — you may
beat me, — you may threaten me with death, — but I
wni go no more to that unholy place ! "

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 143

" How, fool ! " said Burloo, in a savage voice, and his
heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot
eyes ; " how, rebellious ! Take care."

" I have said it," said the poor girl, crossing her
hands on her breast.

" What ! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go
no more ! Very well, thou shalt be carried."

" I will raise the city with my cries," said she, pas-
sionately; and the colour mounted to her brow.

" We will take care of that too ; thou shalt go
gagged."

" Then may the gods help me ! " said I^ydia, rising;
" I will appeal to the magistrates."

" Thine oath rememher!" said a hollow voice, as for
the first time Calenus joined in the dialogue.

At these words a trembling shook the frame of the
unfortimate girl ; she clasped her hands imploringly.
" Wretch that I am ! " she cried, and burst violently
into sobs.

Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement
sorrow which brought the gentle Stratonice to the
spot, her grisly form at this moment appeared in the
chamber.

" How noAV 1 what hast thou been doing with my
slave, brute 1 " said she, angrily, to Eiu'bo.

" Be quiet, wife," said he, in a tone half-sidlen, half-
timid ; " you want new girdles and fine clothes, do
you ? Well, then, take care of your slave, or you may
want them long. Vce ccqjiti tuo — vengeance on thy
head, wretched one ! "

144 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" What is this ? " said the hag, looking from one tn
the other.

Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall
against which she had leaned ; she threw herself at th<'
feet of Stratonice ; she embraced her knees, and looking
uj) at her with those sightless but touching eyes —

" 0 my mistress ! " sobbed she, " you are a woman
— you have had sisters — you have been young like me,
— feel for me— save me ! I will go to those horrible
feasts no more ! "

" Stuff ! " said the hag, dragging her up rudely by
one of those delicate hands, fit for no harsher labour
than that of weaving the flowers which made her plea-
sure or her trade ; — " stuff ! these fine scruples are not
for slaves."

" Hark ye," said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and
chinking its contents : " you hear this music, wife ; by
Pollux ! if you do not break in yon colt with a tight
rein, you will hear it no more."

" The girl is tired," said Stratonice, nodding to Calen-
us ; " she will be more docile when you next want her."

" Yoti ! you ! who is here ? " cried Nydia, casting her
eyes round the apartment with so fearful and straining
a survey, that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat.

" She must see with those eyes ! " muttered he.

" "WHio is here? Speak, in heaven's name! Ah!
if you were blind like me, you would be less cruel,"
said she ; and she again burst into teai"s.

" Take her away," said Burbo, impatiently ; " T hate
these whimperings."

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 145

"Come!" said Stratonice, pushing the poor child
by the shoulders.

J^ydia drew herself aside, with an air to which reso-
hition gave dignity.

" Hear me," she said ; " T have served you faith-
fully,— I, who was brought up — ah ! my mother, my
poor mother! didst thou dream I should come to thisi"
She dashed the tear from her ej'es, and proceeded : —
"Command me in aught else, and I wiU obey; but I
tell you now, hard, stern, inexorable as you are, — I tell
you that I will go there no more ; or, if I am forced
there, that I will implore the mercy of the praitor him-
self— I have said it. Hear me, ye gods, I swear ! "

The hag's eyes glowed with fire ; she seized the child
by the hair with one hand, and raised on high the
other — that formidable right hand, the least blow of
which seemed capable to crush the frail and delicate
form that trembled in her grasp. That thought itself
appeared to strike her, for she suspended the blow,
changed her purpose, and, dragging Nydia to the wall,
seized from a hook a rope, often, alas ! applied to a
similar purpose, and the next moment the shrill, the
agonised shrieks of the blind girl rang piercingly
throuEfh the house.

VOL. I.

CHAPTER III.

Glaucus makes a Purcliase that afterwards costs Mdi dear.

" Holla, my brave fellows ! " said Lepidus, stooping
his head, as he entered the low doorway of the house
of Burbo. " "We have come to see which of you most
honours your lanista." The gladiators rose from the
table in respect to three gallants known to be among
the gayest and richest youths in Pompeii, and whose
voices were therefore the dispensers of amphitheatrical
reputation.

" What fine animals ! " said Clodius to Glaucus :
" worthy to be gladiators ! "

" It is a pity they are not warriors," returned Glaucus.

A singidar thing it was to see the dainty and fasti-
dious Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight
seemed to blind, — whom in the bath a breeze of air
seemed to blast, — in whom nature seemed twisted and
perverted from every natural impulse, and curdled into
one dubious thing of effeminacy and art ; — a singidar
thing was it to see this Lepidus, now all eagerness,
and energy, and life, patting the vast shoxdders of
the gladiators with a blanched and girlish hand, feel-

TEE L.VST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 147

ing with a mincing gripe their great brawn and iron
muscles, all lost in calculating admiration at that man-
hood which he had spent his life in carefully banish-
ing from himself.

So have we seen at this day the beardless flutterers
of the saloons of London tlu-onging round the heroes
of the Fivescourt ; so have we seen them admire, and
gaze, and calculate a bet ; — so have we seen them meet
together, in ludicrous yet in melancholy assemblage,
the two extremes of ci\Tlised society, — the patrons of
pleasure and its slaves — vilest of all slaves — at once
ferocious and mercenary; male prostitutes, who sell
their strength as women their beauty; beasts in act,
but baser than beasts in motive, for the last, at least,
do not mangle themselves for money !

" Ha ! IS'iger, how will you fight 1 " said Lepidus ;
" and Avith whom 1 "

" Sporus challenges me," said the grim giant ; " we
shall fight to the death, I hope."

" Ah ! to be sure," grunted Sporus, with a twinkle
of his small eye.

" He takes the sword, I the net and the trident :
it will be rare sport. I hope the sm:vivor will have
enough to keep up the dignity of the crown."

" Never fear, we'U fill the purse, my Hector," said
Clodius : "let me see, — you fight against Niger?
Glaucus, a bet — I back Niger."

" I told you so," cried Niger, exultingly. " The
noble Clodius knows me ; count yourself dead already,
my Sporus."

148 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Clodius took out his tablet. "A bet, — ten sester-
tia.* "What say you 1 "

" So be it," said Glaucus. " But whom have we
here 1 I never saw this hero before ; " and he glanced
at Lydon, whose limbs were slighter than those of his
companions, and who had something of grace, and
something even of nobleness, in his face, which his
profession had not yet wholly destroyed.

" It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the
wooden sword as yet," answered Niger, condescend-
ingly. " But he has the true blood in liim, and has
challenged Tetraides."

" He challenged me," said Lydon : " I accept the
otfer."

" And how do you fight 1 " asked Lepidus. " Chut,
my boy, wait a while before you contend Mith Tetrai-
des." Lydon smiled disdainfidly.

" Is he a citizen or a slave 1 " said Clodius.

" A citizen j^ we are all citizens here," quoth !N^iger.

" Stretch out yi uir arm, my Lydon," said Lepidus,
with the air of a connoisseur.

The gladiator, with a significant glance at his com-
panions, extended an arm which, if not so huge in its
girth as those of his comrades, was so firm in its
muscles, so beautifully symmetrical in its proportions,
that the three visitors uttered simultaneously an ad-
miring exclamation.

" Well, man, what is your weapon 1 " said Clodius,
tablet in hand.

* Little more than £80.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 1-19

" "We are to tight first -wdtli the cestus ; afterwards,
if both slu'^dve, with swords," returned Tetraides,
sharply, and Adth an envious scoavI.

" With the cestus !" cried Glaucus ; " there you are
wrong, Lydon ; the cestus is the Greek fashion : I
know it well. You shoidd have encouraged flesh for
that contest ; you are far too thin for it — avoid tlie
cestus."

" I cannot," said Lydon.

" And why 1 "

" I have said — because he has challenged me."

" But he will not hold you to the precise weapon."

" My honour holds me ! " returned Lydon, proiuUy.

" I bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus," said
Clodius ; " shall it be, Lepidus ] — even betting, Avith
swords."

" If you give me three to one, I will not take the
odds," said Lepidus : " Lydon will never come to the
swords. You are mighty coiu'teous."

" What say you, Glaiicus ? " said Clodius,

" I will take the odds three to one."

" Ten sestertia to thirty 1"

" Yes." *

Clodius An'ote the bet in his book.

" Pardon me, noble sponsor mine," said Lydon, in a

low voice to Glaucus : " but how much think you the

victor ANillgain?"

* The reader will not confound the sesteriil with the sestertia.
A se'itert ium, which was a stnn, not a coin, was a thousand times
the value of a sestertius; the first was equivalent to £8, Is. 5 Ad.,
the last to Id. 3^ farthings of our money.

150 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" How much'? why, perhaps seven sestertia."

" You are siire it will be as much ] "

" At least. But out on you ! — a Greek would have
thought of the honour, and not the money. 0 Italians !
everywhere ye are Italians ! "

A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the
gladiator.

" Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus ; I think of
both, but I shotdd never have been a gladiator but for
the money."

" Base ! may est thou fall ! A miser never was a hero."

" I am not a miser," said Lydon, haughtily, and he
withdrew to the other end of the room.

" But I don't see Burbo ; where is Burbo 1 I must
talk with Burbo," cried Clodius.

" He is within," cried Niger, pointing to the door at
the extremity of the room.

" And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she 1 "
quoth Lepidus,

" Why, she was here just before you entered ; but
she heard something that displeased her yonder, and
vanished. Pollux ! old Burbo had perhaps caught
hold of some girl in the back room. I heard a
female's A'oice crj^mg out ; the old dame is as jealous
as Juno."

" Ho ! excellent!" cried Lepidus, laughing. " Come,
Clodius, let us go shares with Jupiter ; perhaps he has
caught a Leda."

At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled
tlie group.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 151

" Oh, spare me ! spare me ! I am but a cliild, I am
blind — is not that punishment enough 1 "

" 0 Pallas ! I know that voice ; it is my poor flower-
girl !" exclaimed Glaucus, and he darted at once into
the quarter whence the cry arose.

He burst the door ; he beheld Xydia •writhing in the
grasp of the infuriate hag ; the cord, already dabbled
with blood, was raised in the air — it was suddenly
arrested.

"Fury!" said Glaucus, and with his left hand he
caught Xydia from her grasp ; " how dare you use thus
a girl, — one of your own sex, a child ! My IN'ydia, my
poor infant ! "

" Oh! is that you — is that Glaucus %" exclaimed the
flower-girl, in a tone almost of transport j the tears
stood arrested on her cheek ; she smiled, she clung to
his breast, she kissed his robe as she clung.

" And how dare you, pert stranger, interfere between
a free woman and her slave? By the gods ! despite
your fine tunic and your filthy perfumes, I doubt
whether you are even a Eoman citizen, my mannikin."

" Fair words, mistress — fair words ! " said Clodius,
now entering with Lepidus. " This is my friend and
sworn brother : he must be put under shelter of your
tongue, sweet one; it rains stones ! "

" Give me my slave ! " shrieked the virago, placing
her mighty grasp on the breast of the Greek.

" jS'ot if all your sister Furies could help you,"
answered Glaucus. " Fear not, sweet Is^ydia ; an
Athenian never forsook distress ! "

152 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Holla ! " said Burbo, rising reluctantly, " what
t\irmoil is all this about a slave 1 Let go the young
gentleman, wife, — let him go : for his sake the pert
thing shall be spared this once." So saying, he drew,
or rather dragged off, his ferocious helpmate.

" Methought when w^e entered," said Clodius, " there
was another man present 1 "

" He is gone."

For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high
time to vanish.

" Oh, a friend of mine ! a brother cupman, a quiet
dog, who does not love these snarlings," said Burbo,
carelessly. But go, cliild, you Avill tear the gentle-
man's tunic if you cling to him so tight ; go, you are
pardoned."

" Oh, do not — do not forsake nie ! " cried ISTydia,
clinging yet closer to the Athenian.

Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him,
lier own innumerable and touching graces, the Greek
seated himself on one of the rude chaii-s. He held her
on his knees, — he wiped the blood from her slioulders
with his long hair,- — he kissed the tears from her
cheeks, — he Avhispered to her a thousand of those
soothing Avords Avith Avhich we calm the grief of a
child; — and so beautiful did he seem in liis gentle
and consoling task, that even the fierce heart of Stra-
tonice was touched. His presence seemed to shed light
( iver that base and obscene haunt : young, beautiful,
glorious, he was the emblem of all that earth made most
liappy, comforting one that earth had abandoned !

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 153

" Well, Avho could have thought our blind Xydia
liad been so honoured?" said the \'irago, wiping her
lieated brow.

Glaucus looked up at Eurbo.

" My good man," said he, " this is your slave ; she
sings well, she is accustomed to the care of flowers, —
I wish to make a present of such a slave to a lady.
Will you sell her to me 1 " As he spoke he felt the
whole frame of the poor girl tremble Avith dehght; she
started up, she put her dishevelled hair from her eyes,
slie looked around, as if, alas ! she had the power to

" Sell our Xydia ! no, indeed," said Stratonice,
-ruffly.

Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped
t lie robe of her protector.

" Nonsense ! " said Clodius, imperiously ; " you
must oblige me. What, man ! what, old dame ! oifend
lue, and yoiu' trade is ruined. Is not Burbo my kins-
man Pansa's client 1 Am I iiot the oracle of the
amphitheatre and its heroes ? If I say the Avord,
lireak up your wine-jai's, — you sell no more. Glau-
cus, the slave is youi-s."

Burbo scratched his huge head in evident embar-
rassment.

" The girl is worth her weight in gold to me."

" Name your price, I am rich," said Glaucus.

The ancient Italians were like the modern, there was
nothing they woiUd not sell, much less a poor blind
tlirl.

154 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEH.

" I paid six sestertia for her ; she is worth twelve
now," muttered Stratonice.

" You shall have twenty ; come to the magistrates
at once, and then to my house for your money."

" I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred
but to oblige noble Clodius," said Burbo, whiningly.
*' And you will speak to Pansa about the place of de-
signator at the amphitheatre, noble Clodius 1 it woidd
just suit me."

" Thou shalt have it," said Clodius ; adding in a
whisper to Burbo, " Yon Greek can make your fortune ;
money runs through him like a sieve : mark to-day
with white chalk, my Priam."

^' An dabis?" said Glaucus, in the formal question
of sale and barter.

" Dahitur," answered Burbo.

" Then, then, I am to go with you, — with you 1 0
happiness ! " murmured Nydia.

" Pretty one, yes ; and thy hardest task henceforth
shall be to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest
lady in Pompeii."

The girl sprang from liis clasp ; a change came over
her whole face, so bright the instant before ; she sighed
heavily, and then, once more taking his hand, she
said —

" I thought I was to go to your house 1 "

" And so thou shalt for the present ; come, we lose
time."

CHAPTEE IV.

The Rival of Glaucus presses omvard in tlie Race.

loNE Avas one of those brilliant characters "wliich but
once or twice flash across our career. She united in
the highest perfection the rarest of earthly gifts —
Clenius and Beauty. K^o one ever possessed superior
intellectual qualities without knowing them— the alli-
teration of modesty and merit is pretty enough, but
"where merit is great, the veil of that modesty you
admire never disguises its extent fi'om its possessor.
It is the proud consciousness of certain qualities that it
cannot reveal to the everyday world, that gives to
genius that shy, and reserved, and troubled air, which
})uzzles and flatters you when you encounter it.

lone, then, knew her genius ; but, with that charm-
ing versatility that belongs of right to women, she had
the facidty so few of a kindred genius in the less
malleable sex can claim — the faculty to bend and
model her graceful intellect to all whom it encountered.
The sparkling fountain threw its waters alike upon the
strand, the cavern, and the flowers ; it refreshed, it
smiled, it dazzled everywhere. That pride, which is
the necessary result of superiority, she wore easily — in

156 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

her breast it concentred itself in independence. She
pursued thus her own bright and solitary path. She
asked no aged matron to direct and guide her — she
walked alone by the torch of her own unllickering
purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and absolute custom.
She moulded custom to her own will, but this so deli-
cately and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an ex-
emption from error, that you could not say she outraged
custom, but commanded it. The wealth of her graces
was inexhaustible — she beautified the commonest ac-
tion ; a word, a look from her, seemed magic. Love
her, and you entered into a new world ; you passed
from this trite and commonplace earth. You were in
a land in which your eyes saw everything through an
enchanted medium. In her presence you felt as if
listening to exquisite music ; you were steeped in that
sentiment which has so little of earth in it, and which
music so well inspires — that intoxication which refines
and exalts, which seizes, it is true, the senses, but gives
them the character of the soul.

She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and
fascinate the less ordinary and the bolder natures of
men ; to love her was to unite two passions, that of
love and of ambition — you aspired when you adored
her. It was no wonder that she had completely chained
and subdued the mysterious but burning soul of the
Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt the fiercest passions.
Her beauty and her soul alike enthralled him.

Set apart hhuself from the common world, he loved
that daringness of cliaracter which also made itself,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 157

among common things, aloof and alone. He did not,
1)1- he would not see, that that very isolation put her
\'et more from him than from the \'T.ilgar. Far as the
l»oles — far as the night from day, his solitude was
di\'ided from hers. He was solitary from his dark
and solemn vices — she from her beautiful fancies and
her purity of virtue.

If it Avas not strange that lone thus enthralled the
Egypii3^> f^J" l^ss strange was it that she had captui-ed,
as suddenly as irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of
the Athenian. The gladness of a temperament which
seemed woven from the beams of light had led Glaucus
into pleasure. He obeyed no more vicious dictates
■when he wandered into the dissipations of his time,
than the exhilarating voices of youth and health. He
threw the brightness of liis nature over every abyss and
cavern through which he strayed. His imagination
dazzled him, but his heart never was corrupted. Of
far more penetration than his companions deemed, he
saw that they sought to prey upon his riches and his
\'outh : but he despised wealth save as the means of
enjoyment, and youth was the great sjTiipathy that
united him to them. He felt, it is true, the impulse
I'f nobler thoughts and higher aims than in pleasure
1 ould be indidged : but the world was one vast prison,
to which the Sovereign of Eome was the Imperial
gaoler ; and the very virtues which in the free days of
Athens would have made him ambitious, in the slavery
of earth made him inactive and supine. For in that
unnatural and bloated civilisation, all that was noble in

158 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

emulation was forbidden. Ambition in the regions of
a despotic and luxurious court was but the contest of
flattery and craft. Avarice had become the sole ambi-
tion— men desired praetorships and provinces only as
the licence to piUage, and government was but the
excuse of rapine. It is in small states that glory is
most active and pure — the more confined the limits of
the circle, the more ardent the patriotism. In small
states, opinion is concentrated and strong — every eye
reads your actions — your public motives are blended
with your private ties — every spot in your narrow
sphere is crowded with forms familiar since your child-
hood— the applause of your citizens is like the caresses
of your friends. But in large states, the city is but the
court : the provinces — unknown to you, unfamiliar in
customs, perhaps in language — have no claim on your
patriotism, the ancestry of their inhabitants is not yours.
In the court you desu-e favour instead of glory ; at a
distance from the court, public opinion has vanished
from you, and self-interest has no counterpoise.

Italy, Italy, while I write, your skies are over me —
your seas flow beneath my feet ; listen not to the blind
policy which would unite all your crested cities, mourn-
ing for their republics, into one empire; false, pernicious
delusion ! yoiu* only hope of regeneration is in division.
Florence, Milan, Venice, Genoa, may be free once more,
if each is free. But dream not of freedom for the
whole whUe you enslave the parts ; the heart must
be the centre of the system, the blood must circulate
freely every^vhere ; and iia vast coimnunities you behold

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 159

but a bloated and feeble giant, "whose brain is imbecile,
Avhose limbs are dead, and who pays in disease and
weakness the penalty of transcending the natural pro-
portions of health and vigour.

Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent
qualities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that over-
llijwing imagination which gave grace to pleasure, and
j)oetry to thought. Ease was less despicable than con-
tention with parasites and slaves, and luxury could yet
be refined, though ambition could not be ennobled.
But all that was best and brightest in his soul woke at
once when he knew lone. Here was an empire, worthy
of demigods to attain ; here was a glory, which the
reeking smoke of a foul society coidd not soil or dim.
Love, in every time, in every state, can thus find space
t'l ir its golden altars. Aiid tell me if there ever, even in
the ages most favourable to glory, could be a triumph
more exalted and elating than the conquest of one
noble heart?

And whether it was that this sentiment inspired
him, his ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed
more awake and more visible, in lone's presence. If
natural to love her, it was natural that she should
ruturn the passion. Young, brilliant, eloquent, ena-
moured, and Athenian, he was to her as the incarna-
tion of the poetry of her father's land. They were not
like creatures of a world in which strife and sorrow are
the elements ; they were like things to be seen only in
tlie holidaj' of nativre, so glorious and so fresh were
their youth, their beauty, and their love. They seemed

160 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

out of place in the harsh and everyday earth ; they
belonged of right to the Satiu'nian age, and the dreams
of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry of
life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts
were concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and
of Greece.

But if lone was independent in her choice of life, so
was her modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily
alarmed. The falsehood of the Egyptian was invented
by a deep knowledge of her nature. The story of
coarseness, of indelicacy, in Glaucus, stung her to the
quick. She felt it a reproach upon her character and
her career — a punishment, above all, to her love ; she
felt, for the first time, how suddenly she had yielded
to that love ; she blushed with shame at a weakness,
the extent of which she was startled to perceive : she
imagined it was that weakness which had incurred the
contenijDt of Glaucus ; she endured the bitterest curse
of noble natures — humiliation ! Yet her love, perhaps,
Avas no less alarmed than her pride. If one moment
she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus — if one mo-
ment she renoruiced, she almost hated him — at the
next she burst into passionate tears, her heart yielded
to its softness, and she said in the bitterness of anguish,
" He despises me — he does not love me."

From the hour the Egy|)tian had left her, she had
retired to her most secluded chamber, she had shut out
her handmaids, she had denied herself to the crowds
that besieged her door. Glaucus was excluded Anth
the rest ; he wondered, but he guessed not whj'- ! He

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 161

never attributed to his lone — his queen — his goddess
— that woman-like caprice of which the love-poets of
Italy so unceasingly complain. He imagined her, in
the majesty of her candour, above aU the arts that tor-
ture. He was troubled, but his hopes were not dimmed,
for he laiew already that he loved and was beloved ;
what more coidd he desire as an amidet against fear 1

At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed,
and the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole
to that temple of his heart — her homej* and wooed
her after the beautiful fashion of his country. He
i-overed her threshold with the richest garlands, in
\\-liich every flower was a volume of sweet passion ;
and he charmed the long summer night with the sound
t if the Lyciau lute ; and verses, which the inspiration
1 if the moment sufficed to weave.

But the -window above opened not ; no smile made
yet more holy the shining air of night. All was still
and dark. He knew not if his verse was welcome and
his suit was heard.

Yet lone slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those
> )ft strains ascended to her chamber ; they soothed,
they subdued her. "VYhile she listened, she believed
nothing against her lover ; but when they were stilled
at last, and his step departed, the spell ceased ; and, in
the bitterness of her soul, she almost conceived in that
ilelicate flattery a new affront.

^ Athenaeiis — "The trae temple of Cupid is the house of the
1 .lone." "^

VuL.T ^

162 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

I said she Avas denied to all ; but there was one
exception, there was one person who would not "be
denied, assuming over her actions and her house some-
thing hke the authority of a parent ; Arhaces, for him-
self, claimed an exemption from all the ceremonies
observed by others. He entered the threshold with
the licence of one who feels that he is privileged and
at home. He made his way to her solitude, and with
that sort of quiet and unapologetic air which seemed to
consider the right as a thing of course. With all the
independence of loue's character, his heart had enabled
him to obtain a secret and powerful control over her
mind. She coidd not shake it off; sometimes she
desu-ed to do so; but she never actively struggled
against it. She was fascinated by his serpent eye.
He arrested, he commanded her, by the magic of a
mind long accustomed to awe and to subdue. Utterly
unaware, of his real character or his hidden love, she
felt for him the reverence which genius feels for wis-
dom, and virtue for sanctity. She regarded him as
one of those mighty sages of old, who attained to the
mysteries of knowledge by an exemption from the
passions of their kind. She scarcely considered him
as a being, like herself, of the earth, but as an oracle
at once dark and sacred. She did not love him, but
she feared. His presence was unwelcome to her; it
dimmed her spirit even in its brightest mood ; he
seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, like some
eminence which casts a shadow over the sun. But she
never thought of forbidding his visits. She Avas pas-

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 163

siA^e under the influence whicli created in her breast,
not the repugnance, but something of the stillness of
terror.

Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts
to possess himself of that treasure he so burningly
coveted. He was cheered and elated by his conquests
over her brother. From the hour in which Apaecides
I'eU beneath the voluptuous sorcery of that fete which
we have described, he felt his empire over the young
priest triumphant and insured. He knew that there
is no victim so thoroughly subdued as a young and
I'ervent man for the first time delivered to the thral-
dom of the senses.

"V\Tien Apajcides recovered, with the morning light,
from the profound sleep which succeeded to the deli-
rium of wonder and of pleasure, he was, it is true,
ashamed — terrified — appaUed. His vows of austerity
and ceHbacy echoed in his ear ; his thirst after holi-
ness— had it been quenched at so unhallowed a stream ?
But Arbaces knew well the means by which to confirm
his conquest. From the arts of pleasure he led the
young priest at once to those of his mysterious wis-
dom. He bared to his amazed eyes the initiatory
secrets of the sombre philosophy of the Nile — those
secrets plucked from the stars, and the wild chemistry,
which, in those days, when Eeason herself was but the
creature of Imagination, might well pass for the lore of
a diviner magic. He seemed to the young eyes of the
priest as a being above mortality, and endowed with
supernatural gifts. That yearning and intense desire

164 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

for the knowledge which is not of earth — which had
burned from his boyhood in the heart of the priest —
was dazzled, until it confused and mastered his clearer
sense. He gave himself to the art which thus ad-
dressed at once the two strongest of human passions,
that of pleasure and that of knowledge. He was loath
to believe that one so wise could err, that one so lofty
coidd stoop to deceive. Entangled in the dark web of
metaphysical moralities, he caught at the excuse by
which the Egyptian converted \'ice into a virtue. His
pride was insensibly flattered that Arbaces had deigned
to rank him with himself, to set him apart from the
laws wdiich bound the vulgar, to make him an august
participator, both in the mystic studies and the magic
fascinations of the Egyptian's solitude. The pure and
stern lessons of that creed to which Olinthus had
sought to make him convert, were swept away from
his memory by the deluge of new passions. And the
Egyptian, who "was versed in the articles of that true
faith, and who soon learned from his pupil the effect
which had been produced upon him by its believers,
sought, not unskilfidly, to undo that effect, by a tone
of reasoning, half-sarcastic and half-earnest.

" This faith," said he, " is but a borrowed j^lagiarism
from one of the many allegories invented by our priests
of old. Oljserve," he added, pointing to a hierogly-
phical scroll, — " observe in these ancient figures the
origin of the Christian's Trinity. Here are also tliree
gods— the Deity, the Spirit, and the Son. Observe
that the epithet of the Son is ' Saviour,' — observe that

THE LAST DAYS OF rOMPEII. 165

tlio sign "by wliicli his liuman qualities are denoted is
tlio cross.* Kote liere, too, the mystic history of
< hiiis, how he put on death, how he lay in the grave ;
and how, thus ftdfilling a solemn atonement, he rose
:i,^^ain from the dead ! In these stories we but design
; ' 1 paint an allegory from the operations of nature and
-'■ evolutions of the eternal heavens. But, the alle-
i;.iiy unknown, the types themselves have furnished
tu credidous nations the materials of many creeds.
'Jliey have travelled to the vast plains of India ; they
!:ave mixed themselves up in the visionary specula-
11 JUS of the Greek: becoming more and more gross
and embodied, as they emerge farther from the shadows
if their antique origin, they have assumed a human
and palpable form in this novel faith ; and the be-
li'vers of Galilee are but the unconscious repeaters of
1 lie of the superstitions of the Xile ! "

This was the last argument which completely sub-
dued the priest. It was necessary to him, as to all, to
1 iL'lieve in something ; and undivided, and at last un-
1 iluctant, he surrendered himself to that belief Avhich
Aibaces inculcated, and which all that was human in
passion, all that was flattering in vanity, all that was
alluring in pleasure, served to invite to, and contri-
buted to confirm.

This conquest thus easily made, the Egyptian could
now give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far
dearer and mightier object ; and he hailed, in his

* The believer mil draw from this vag^ie coincidence a very dif-
ferent corollary from that of the Egyptian.

166 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

success with the brother, an omeii of his triumph over
the sister.

He had seen lone on the day following the revel we
have witnessed ; and which was also the day after he
had poisoned her mind against his rival. The next
day, and the next, he saw her also ; and each time he
laid himself out with consummate art, partly to confirm
her impression against Glancus, and principally to pre-
pare her for the impressions he desked her to receive.
The proud lone took care to conceal the anguish she
endured ; and the pride of woman has an hypocrisy
which can deceive the most penetrating, and shame
the most astute. But Arbaces was no less cautious
not to recur to a subject which he felt it was most
politic to treat as of the lightest importance. He
knew that by dwelling much upon the fault of a rival,
you only give him dignity in the eyes of your mistress ;
the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly
to contemn; the wisest plan is to lower him by an
indifference of tone, as if you could not dream that
he could be loved. Your safety is in concealing the
wound to your own pride, and imperceptibly alarming
that of the umpire, whose voice is fate ! Such, in all
times, will be the policy of one who knows the science
of the sex — it was now the Egyptian's.

He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of
Glaucus ; he mentioned his name, but not more often
than that of Clodius or of Lepidus. He affected to
class them together, as things of a low and ephemeral
species; as things wanting nothing of the butterfly,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 167

save its innocence and its grace. Sometimes he slightly
alluded to some invented debauch, in which he declared
them companions ; sometimes he adverted to them as
the antipodes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to
whose order that of lone belonged. Elinded alike
by tke pride of lone, and, perhaps, by his own, he
dreamed not that she already loved ; but he dreaded
lest she might have formed for Glaucus the first flut-
tering prepossessions that lead to love. And, secretly,
he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when he re-
flected on the youth, tlie fascinations, and the bril-
liancy of that formidable rival whom he pretended to
undervalue.

It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of
the previous book, that Arbaces and lone sat together.

" You w^ear your ved at home," said the Egyptian ;
' ' that is not fair to those whom you honour with your
friendship."

" But to Arbaces," answered lone, who, indeed, had
cast the veil over her features to conceal eyes red Avith
weeping — " to Arbaces, who looks only to the mind,
what matters it that the face is concealed 1 "

" I do look only to the mmd," replied the Egyptian :
'•' show me, then, your face — for there I shall see it ! "

" You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii," said
lone, with a forced tone of gaiety.

" Do you think, fair lone, that it is only at Pompeii
that I have learned to value you ? " The Egyptian's
voice trembled — he paused for a moment, and then
resumed.

168 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" There is a love, beautiful Greek, wlxich is not the
love only of the thoughtless and the young — there is
a love which sees not Avith the eyes, which hears not
with the ears ; but in which soul is enamoured of soul.
The countryman of thy ancestors, the cave -nursed
Plato, dreamed of such a love, — his followers have
sought to imitate it ; but it is a love that is not for
the herd to echo — it is a love that only high and noble
natures can conceive — it hath nothing in common ^vith
the sympathies and ties of coarse affection; wrinkles do
not revolt it — homeliness of featiu-e does not deter; it
asks youth, it is true, but it asks it only in the fresh-
ness of the emotions ; it asks beauty, it is true, but it
is the beauty of the thought and of the spirit. Such
is the love, 0 lone, which is a worthy offering to thee
from the cold and the austere. Austere and cold thou
deemest me — such is the love that I venture to lay
upon thy shrine — thou canst receive it without a
blush."

" And its name is friendship ! " replied lone : her
answer was innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of
one conscious of the design of the speaker.

" Friendsloip I " said Arbaces, vehemently. " Xo ;
that is a word too often profaned to apply to a senti-
ment so sacred. Friendship ! it is a tie that binds fools
and profligates ! Friendship ! it is the bond that unites
the frivolous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius !
Friendship ! no, that is an affection of earth, of vulgar
habits and sordid sympathies ; the feeling of which I

THE LAST DxVYS OF POMPEII. 169

speak is borrowed from the stars * — it partakes of that
mystic and ineflfiible yearning which Ave feel when we
gaze on them — it burns, yet it purifies — it is the lamp
of naphtha in tlie alabaster vase, glowing with fragrant
odours, but shining only through the piu'est vessels.
No ; it is not love, and it is not friendship, that
Ai'baces feels for lone. Give it no name — earth has
no name for it — it is not of earth — why debase it with
earthly epithets and eartlily associations'?"

Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he
felt his ground step by step ; he knew that he uttered
a language which, if at this day of affected platonisms
it would speak unequivocally to the ears of beauty,
Avas at that time strange and unfamiliar, to which no
precise idea could be attached, from which he could
imperceptibly advance or recede, as occasion suited,
as hope encouraged, or fear deterred. lone trembled,
though she knew not why ; her veil hid her features,
and masked an expression, which, if seen by the
Egyptian, would have at once dami^ed and enraged
him ; in fact, he never was more displeasing to her —
the harmonious modulation of the most suasive voice
that ever disguised unhallowed thought fell discor-
dantly on her ear. Her whole soul was still filled
with the image of Glaucus ; and the accent of tender-
ness from another only revolted and dismayed ; yet
she did not conceive that any passion more ardent than
that platonism wliich Arbaces expressed lurked be-
* Plato.

170 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

neath his words. She thought that he, in truth, spoke
only of the affection and sympathy of the soul ; hut
was it not precisely that aftection and that sjTnpathy
which had made a part of those emotions she felt
for Glaucus ; and could any other footstep than his
approach the haunted adytus of her heart?

Anxious at once to change the conversation, she
rephed, therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice,
" Whomsoever Arhaces honours with the sentiment of
esteem, it is natural that his elevated Avisdom should
colour that sentiment with its own hues ; it is natural
that his friendship should he purer than that of others
Avhose pursuits and errors he does not deign to share.
But tell me, Arhaces, hast thou seen my hrother of
late 1 He has not visited me for several days ; and
when I last saw Mm his manner disturhed and alarmed
me much. I fear lest he was too precipitate in the
severe choice that he has adopted, and that he repents
an irrevocable step."

" Be cheered, lone," replied the Egyptian. " It is
true that some little time since he was troubled and
sad of spirit ; those doubts beset him which were
likely to haunt one of that fervent temperament,
which ever ebbs and flows, and vibrates between ex-
citement and exhaustion. But he, lone, he came to
me in his anxieties and his distress ; he sought one
who pitied and loved him ; I have calmed his mind —
I have removed his doubts — I have taken him from
the threshold of "Wisdom into its temple ; and be-
fore the majesty of the goddess his soul is hushed and

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 171

sootlied. Fear not, lie will repent no more ; they who
trust themselves to Arbaces never repent but for a
moment."

" You rejoice me," answered lone. " My dear bro-
ther ! in his contentment I am happy."

The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects ;
the Egyptian exerted himself to please, he conde-
scended even to entertain; the vast variety of his
knowledge enabled him to adorn and light up every
subject on which he touched ; and lone, forgetting the
displeasing effect of his former words, was carried
away, despite her sadness, by the magic of his intel-
lect. Her manner became imrestrained and her lan-
guage fluent ; and Arbaces, who had waited his oppor-
tunity, now hastened to seize it.

" You have never seen," said he, " the interior of
my home ; it may amuse you to do so : it contains
some rooms that may explain to you what you have
often asked me to describe— the fashion of an Egyptian
house ; not, indeed, that you will perceive in the poor
and minute proportions of Eoman architecture the
massive strength, the vast space, the gigantic magnifi-
cence, or even the domestic construction, of the palaces
of Thebes and Memphis ; but something there is, here
and there, that may serve to express to you some
notion of that antique civilisation Avhicli has human-
ised the world. Devote, then, to the austere friend of
yoiir^^outh, one of these bright summer evenings, and
let me boast that my gloomy mansion has been hon-
oured -with the presence of the admired lone."

172 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of
the danger that awaited her, lone readily assented to
the proposal. The next evening was fixed for the
visit; and the Egyptian, with a serene countenance,
and a heart heating with fierce and unholy joy, de-
parted. Scarce had he gone, when another visitor
claimed admission. — But now we return to Glaucus.

CHAPTER Y.

The poor Tortoise— New Changes for Nydia.

The morning sun shone over the small and odorous
garden enclosed -ttdthin the peristyle of the house of the
Athenian. He lay reclined, sad and listlessly, on the
smooth grass ^vhicll intersected the \'iridariuni ; and a
slight canopy stretched above, hroke the fierce rays of
the summer sn)i.

"VYlien that fairy mansion was first disinterred from
the earth, they found in the gartlen the shell of a tor-
toise that had been its inmate.* That animal, so strange
a link in the creation, to which Xature seems to haA'e
denied all the pleasures of life, save life's passive and
dreamlike perception, had been the guest of the place
for yeai-s before Glaucus purchased it ; for years, indeed,
which went beyond the memory of man, and to which
tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The house
had been built and rebuilt — its possessors had changed
and fluctuated — generations had flourished and decayed
— and still the tortoise dragged on its slow and unsym-

* I do not know whether it he still presei-ved (I hope so), but the
shell of a tortoise was found in the lioiise appropriated, in this
work, to Glaucus.

174 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

l^atliising existence. lu the earthquake, which sixteen
years before had. overthrown many of the public build-
ings of the city, and scared away the amazed inhabi-
tants, the house now inhabited by Glaucus had been
terribly shattered. The possessors deserted it for many
days ; on their return they cleared away the ruins
which encumbered the vuidarium, and found still the
tortoise, unharmed and unconscious of the surrounding
destruction. It seemed to bear a charmed life in its
languid blood and imperceptible motions ; yet was it not
so inactive as it seemed : it held a regular and monoto-
nous course ; inch by inch it traversed the little orbit
of its domain, taking months to accomplish the whole
gyration. It was a restless voyager, that tortoise ! —
l^atiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed
journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it —
a philosopher concentrated in itself. There was some-
thing grand in its solitary selfishness !— the sun in
which it basked — the waters poured daily over it — the
air, which it insensibly inhaled, were its sole and un-
failing luxuries. The mild changes of the season, in
that lovely clime, affected it not. It covered itself with
its shell — as the saint in his piety — as the sage in his
wisdom — as the lover in his hope.

It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of
time — it was an emblem of time itself : slow, regular,
perpetual : unwitting of the passions that fret them-
selves around — of the wear and tear of mortality. The
poor tortoise ! nothing less than the bursting of volca-
noes, the convulsions of the riven world, coidd have

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMrEII. 175

quenched its sluggish spark ! The inexorable Death,
that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly
by a thing to which death coidd bring so insignificant
a change.

For this animal, the mercurial and vivid Greek felt
all the wonder and affection of contrast. He could
spend hours in surveying its creeping progress, in
moralising over its mechanism. He despised it in joy
— he envied it in sorrow.

Eegarding it now as he lay along the sward, its dull
mass moving while it seemed motionless, the Athenian
murmured to himself : —

" The eagle dropped a stone from liis talons, think-
ing to break thy shell : the stone crushed the head of
a poet. This is the allegory of Fate ! Dull thing !
Thou hadst a fether and a mother ; perhaps, ages ago,
thou thyself hadst a mate. Did thy parents love, or
didst thou % Did thy slow blood cii'cidate more gladly
when thou didst creep to the side of thy wedded one 1
Wert thou capable of affection ? Could it distress thee
if she were away from thy side 1 Coiddst thou feel
when she was present 1 "What would I not give to
know the history of thy mailed breast — to gaze upon the
mechanism of thy faint desires — to mark what hair-
breadth difference separates thy sorrow from thy joy !
Yet, metliinks, thou wouldst know if lone were pre-
sent ! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a happier air
— like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou know-
est not that she is absent ; and I — Avoidd I could be
like thee — between the intervals of seeing her ! What

176 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

doubt, what presentiment, haimts me ! why will she
not admit me 1 Days have passed smce I heard her
voice. For the first time, life grows flat to me. I am
as one who is left alone at a banquet, the lights dead,
and the flowers faded. Ah ! lone, coiddst thou dream
how I adore thee ! "

From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was inter-
rupted by the entrance of ISTydia. She came with her
light though cautious step, along the marble tablinum.
She passed the jjortico, and paused at the flowers which
bordered the garden. She had her Avater-vase in her
hand, and she sprinlded the thirsting plants, which
seemed to brighten at her approach. She bent to in-
hale their odour. She touched them timidly and
caressingly. She felt along their stems, if any withered
leaf or creejDing insect marred their beauty. And as
she hovered from flower to flower, with her earnest and
youthful countenance and graceful motions, you could
not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess of
the garden.

" Nydia, my child ! " said Glaucus.

At the sound of his voice she paused at once — listen-
ing, blushing, breatliless ; with her lips parted, her face
upturned to catch the direction of the sound, she laid
down the vase — she hastened to liim ; and wonderful
it was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way
through the flowers, and came by the shortest path to
the side of her new lord,

" N'ydia," said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her
long and beautiful hair, " it is now tliree days since

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 177

thou liast been under the protection of my household
gods. Have they smiled on thee 1 Art thou hajipy?"

" Ah ! so happy ! " sighed the slave.

" And noAv," continued Glaucus, " that thou hast
recovered somewhat from the hateful recollections of
thy former state, — and now that they have fitted thee
[touching her broidered tunic] -with garments more
meet for thy delicate shape, — and now, sweet child,
that thou hast accustomed thyself to a happiness which
may the gods grant thee ever ! I am about to pray at
thy hands a boon."

" Oh! what can I do for thee V said Xydia, clasping
her hands.

"Listen," said Glaucus, "and, young as thou art,
thou shalt be my confidante. Hast thou ever heard the
name of lone 1 "

The blind girl gasped for breath, and, turning pale
as one of the statues which shone upon them from the
peristyle, she answered with an eff'ort, and after a
moment's pause, — -

" Yes ! I have heard that she is of i!^ea23olis, and
beautiful."

" Beautiful ! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day.
Keapolis ! nay, she is Greek, by origin ; Greece only
could furnish forth such shapes. JS'ydia, I love her ! "

" I thought so," replied Xydia, calmly.

" I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to
send thee to her. Happy Nydia, thou ^vilt be in her
chamber — thou wilt drink the music of her voice — thou
wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence ! "

VOL. I. 3H

178 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" What ! what ! wilt thou send me from thee 1 "

" Thou wilt go to lone," answered Glaucus, m a tone
that said, " What more canst thou desire ? "

Nydia burst into tears.

Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with
the soothing caresses of a brother.

" My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of
the happiness I bestow on thee. She is gentle, and
kind, and soft as the breeze of spring. She will be a
sister to thy youth — she will appreciate thy winning
talents — she will love thy simple graces as none other
could, for they are like her own. Weepest thou still,
fond fool 1 I will not force thee, sweet. Wilt thou not
do for me this kindness 1 "

" Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep
no longer — I am calm."

" That is my own ISTydia," continued Glaucus, kissing
her hand. " Go, then, to her: if thou art disappointed
in her kindness — if I have deceived thee, return when
thou wilt. I do not give thee to another ; I but lend.
My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ah ! would
it could shelter all the friendless and distressed ! But
if my heart whispers truly, I shall claim thee again
soon, my child. My home and Tone's will become the
same, and thou shalt dwell with both."

A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind
girl, but she wept no more — ^she was resigned.

" Go then, my Nydia, to Tone's house — they shall
show thee the way. Take her the fairest flowers thou
canst pluck ; the vase which contains them I will give

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 179

tliee ; tlioii must excuse its unwortliiness. Tliou shalt
take, too, witli thee the lute that I gave tliee yester-
day, and from wliich thou knowest so well to awaken
the charming spuit. Thou shalt give her also this
letter, in which, after a hundred efforts, I have em-
bodied something of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch
every accent, every modulation of her voice, and tell
me, when we meet again, if its music should flatter me
or discourage. It is now, l^ydia, some daj^s since I
have been admitted to lone ; there is something myste-
rious in this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts
and fears ; learn — for thou art quick, and thy care for
me will sharpen tenfold thy acuteness — learn the cause
of this unkindness ; speak of me as often as thou canst ;
let my name come ever to thy lips ; insinuate how I
love, rather than ijroclaim it ; watch if she sighs whilst
thou speakest, if she answer thee ; or, if she reproves,
in what accents she reproves. Be my friend, plead for
me : and oh ! how vastly Avilt thou overpay the little
I have done for thee ! Thou comprehendest, Nydia ;
thou art yet a child — have I said more than thou canst
understand 1 "

"is^o."

" And thou wilt serve me ? "

" Yes."

" Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers,
and I will give thee the vase I speak of ; seek me in the
chamber of Leda. Pretty one, thou dost not grieve now ? "

" Glaucus, I am a slave ; what business have I with
grief or joy?"

180 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Sayst thou so 1 No, N'ydia, be free. I give tliee
freedom ; enjoy it as thou wilt, and pardon me that I
reckoned on thy desire to serve me."

" You are offended. Oh ! I would not, for that which
no freedom can give, offend you, Glaucus. My guar-
dian, my saviour, my protector, forgive the poor blind
girl ! She does not grieve even in leaving thee, if she
can contribute to thy happiness."

" May the gods bless this grateful heart ! " said Glau-
cus, greatly moved; and, unconscious of the fires he
excited, he repeatedly kissed her forehead.

" Thou forgivest me," said she, "and thou wilt talk no
more of freedom ; my happiness is to be thy slave : thou
hast promised thou wilt not give me to another "

" I have promised."

" And now, then, I will gather the flowers."

Sdentlj', Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the
costly and jewelled vase, in wliich the flowers vied with
each otlier in hue and fragrance ; tearlessly she received
his parting admonition. She paused for a moment when
his voice ceased — she did not trust herself to reply — she
sought his hand — she raised it to her lips, dropj^ed her
veil over her face, and passed at once from his presence.
She paused again as she reached the threshold; she
stretched her hands towards it, and miu'mured, —

" Three happy days — days of unspeakable delight,
have I known since I passed thee — blessed threshold !
may peace dwell ever with thee when I am gone ! And
now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound
it utters bids me — die ! "

CHAPTEE VI.

Tlie Happy Beauty and the Blind Slave.

A SLAVE entered the cIianiLer of lone. A messenger
from Glaucus desired to be admitted.

lone hesitated an instant.

" She is bhnd, tliat messenger," said the slave ;
"rfhe will do her commission to none but thee."

Base is that heart which does not respect affliction !
The moment she heard the messenger was blind, lone
felt the impossibility of returning a chilling reply.
Glaucus had chosen a herald that Avas indeed sacred —
a herald that could not be denied.

" What can he want ^nth me 1 what message can he
send ? " and the heart of lone beat quick. The curtain
across the door was withdrawn ; a soft and echoless
step fell upon the marble ; and !N^ydia, led by one of
the attendants, entered with her precious gift.

She stood still a moment, as if listening for some
'sound that might direct her.

" "Will the noble lone," said she, in a soft and low
voice, " deign to speak, that I may know whither to
steer these benighted steps, and that I maj lay my
offerings at her feet?"

"Fair cliild," said lone, touched and soothingly,

182 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" give not thyself the pain to cross these slippery floors,
my attendant wUl bring to me what thou hast to pre-
sent ; " and she motioned to the handmaid to take the
vase.

" I may give these flowers to none but thee,"
answered !Nydia ; and, guided by her ear, she walked
slowly to the place where lone sat, and kneeling when
she came before her, proffered the vase.

lone took it from her hand, and placed it on the
table at her side. She then raised her gently, and
would have seated her on the couch, but the girl
modestly resisted.

" I have not yet discharged my office," said she ; and
she drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest. " This
will perhaps explain why he who sent me chose so
unworthy a messenger to lone."

The l!«reapolitan took the letter with a hand, the
trembling of which JSTydia at once felt and sighed to
feel. With folded arms, and downcast looks, she stood
before the proud and stately form of lone ; — no less
proud, perhaps, in her attitude of submission. lone
waved her hand, and the attendants mthdreAV ; she
gazed again upon the form of the young slave in sur-
prise and beautiful compassion ; then, retiring a little
from her, she opened and read the following letter : —

" Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter.
Is lone ill? thy slaves tell me 'No,' and that assur-
ance comforts me. Has Glaucus off"ended lone 1 — ah !
that question I may not ask from tJiem. For five days

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 183

I have beeu banished from thy presence. Has the sun
shone ? — I know it not. Has the sky smiled ? — it has
liad no smile for me. IMy sun and my sky are lone.
Do I offend thee 1 Am I too bold 1 Do I say that on
the tablet which my tongue has hesitated to breathe 1
Alas ! it is in thine absence that I feel most the spells
by Avhich thou hast subdued me. And absence, that
deprives me of joy, brings me courage. Thou wilt not
see me ; thou hast banished also the common flatterers
th&t flock around thee. Canst thou confoimd me with
them 1 It is not possible ! Thou knowest too well
that I am not of them — that theii" clay is not mine.
Foi even were I of the humblest mould, the fragrance
of the rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of thy
nature hath passed within me, to embalm, to sanctify,
to inspire. Have they slandered me to thee, lone?
Thou wilt not believe them. Did the Delphic oracle
itself tell me thou wert unworthy, I would not believe
it ; and am I less incredulous than thou 1 I think of
the last time we met — of the song which I sang to
thee — of the look that thou gavest me in return.
Disguise it as thou wilt, lone, there is something
kindred between us, and our eyes acknowledged it,
though our lips were silent. Deign to see me, to listen
to me, and after that exclude me if thou wilt. I meant
not so soon to say I loved. But those words rush to
my heart — they will have way. Accept, then, my
homage and my vows. We met first at the shi-ine of
Pallas ; shall we not meet before a softer and a more
ancient altar 1

184 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,

"Beautiful! adored lone! If my hot youth and
my Athenian blood have misguided and allured me,
they have but taught my wanderings to appreciate the
rest — the haven they have attained. I hang up mj
dripping robes on the Sea-god's shrine. I have escapal
shipwreck. I have found thee. lone, deign to see
me : thou art gentle to strangers, wilt thou be less
merciful to those of thine own land 1 I await thy re-
ply. Accept the flowers which I send — their sweet
breath has a language more eloc[uent than words.
They take from the sun the odours they return — tliey
are the emblem of the love that receives and repays
tenfold — the emblem of the heart that drank thy rays,
and owes to thee the germ of the treasures that it
profiers to thy smile. I send these by one whom tliou
wilt receive for her ovni sake, if not for mine. Siie,
like us, is a stranger; her fathers' ashes lie under
brighter skies : but, less happy than we, she is blind
and a slave. Poor ISTydia ! I seek as much as pos-
sible to repair to her the cruelties of Mature and of
Pate, in asking permission to place her "vvith thee.
She is gentle, quick, and docile. She is skilleel in
music and the song; and she is a very Chloris* to the
flowers. She thinks, lone, that thou Avilt love her : if
thou dost not, senel her back to me.

" One Avord more, — let me be bold, lone. Why

thinkest thou so higlily of yon elark Egyptian 1 he hath

not aboi;t him the air of lionest men. AYe Greeks

li am mankind from our cradle ; we arc not the less

* Tlie Greek Flora.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 185

profound, in that we affect no sombre mien ; our lips
.smile, but our eyes are grave — tliey observe — they
note — they study. Arbaces is not one to be credu-
lously trusted : can it be that he hath wronged me to
thee? I tliink it, for I left hmi with thee; thou
sawest how my presence stung him ; since then thou
hast not admitted me. Believe nothing that he can
say to my disftivour ; if thou dost, tell me so at once ;
for this lone owes to Glaucus. Farewell ! this letter
touches thy hand ; these characters meet tliine eyes —
shall they be more blessed than he who is their author ?
Once more, farewell ! "

It seemed to lone, as she read this letter, as if a
mist had fallen from her eyes. What had been the
supposed offence of Glaucus 1 — that he had not really
loved ! And now plainly, and in no dubious terms,
he confessed that love. From that moment his power
Avas fully restored. At every tender word in that
letter, so full of romantic and trustfid. passion, her
healt smote her. And had she doubted his faith, and
had she believed another ? and had she not, at least,
allowed to him the cidprit's right to know his crime, to
plead in his defence? — the tears rolled down her
cheeks — she kissed the letter — she placed it in her
bosom, and, turning to !N'ydia, who stood in the same
place and in the same posture : —

" "Wilt thou sit, my child," said she, " while I write
an answer to this letter 1 "

" You AviU answer it, then ! " said Xydia, coldly.

186 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" "Well, tlie slave tliat accompanied me will take back
your answer."

" For you," said lone, " stay with me — trust me,
your service shall be light."

Nydia bowed her head.

" What is your name, fair giii '? "

" They call me Nydia."

" Your country 1 "

" The land of Olympus — Thessaly."

" Thou shalt be to me a friend," said lone, caressingly,
" as thou art already half a countrywoman. Mean-
while, I beseech thee, stand not on these cold and
glassy marbles. — There ! now that thou art seated, I
can leave thee for an instant."

" lone to Glaucus, greeting. — Come to me, Glaucus,"
wrote lone, — " come to me to-morrow. I may have
been unjust to thee ; but I will tell thee, at least, the
faidt that has been imputed to thy charge. Fear not,
henceforth, the Egyptian — fear none. Thou sayest
thou hast expressed too much — alas 1 — in these hasty
words I have already done so. Farewell ! "

As lone reappeared with the letter, Avhich she did
not dare to read after she had written (Ah ! common
rashness, common timidity of love !) — Nydia started
from her seat.

"You have written to Glaucus ] "

" I have."

" And will he thank the messenger who gives to him
thy letter ? "

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 187

lone forgot that her companion was blind ; she
Uushed from the brow to the neck, and remained
silent.

" I mean this," added JSTydia, in a calmer tone ; " the
lightest world of coldness from thee will sadden him —
the lightest kindness will rejoice. If it be the first,
let the slave take back thine answer ; if it be the last,
let me — I will return this evening."

" And why, Xydia," asked lone, evasively, " woiddst
thou be the bearer of my letter 1 "

" It is so, then," said Xydia. " Ah ! how could it
1)6 otherwise ; who could be unkind to Glaucus 1 "

" My child," said lone, a little more reservedly than
before, "thou speakest warmly — Glaucus, then, is
amiable in thine eyes 1 "

" Xoble lone ! Glaucus has been that to me which
neither fortune nor the gods have been — a friend ! "

The sadness mingled with dignity AAdth which j^ydia
uttered these simple words, affected the beautiful
lone : she bent down and kissed her. " Thou art
grateful, and deservedly so ; why shoidd I blush to
say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude % Go, my
iSTydia — take to him thyself this letter — but return
again. If I am from home when thou returnest — as
this evening, perhaps, I shall be — thy chamber shall be
prepared next my own. jS"ydia, I have no sister — wilt
thou be one to me % "

The Thessalian kissed the hand of lone, and then
said, with some embarrassment, —

" One favour, fair lone — may I dare to ask it ? "

188 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Thou canst not ask what I will not grant," replied
the Neapolitan.

" They tell me," said Xydia, " that thou art beauti-
ful beyond the loveliness of earth. Alas ! I 'cannot
see that which gladdens the world ! Wilt thou suffer
nie, then, to pass my hand over thy face 1 — that is my
sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright."

She did not wait for the answer of lone, but, as she
spoke, gently and slowly passed her hand over the
bending and half-averted features of the Greek — fea-
tures which but one image in the world can yet de-
picture and recall — that image is the mutilated but all-
wondrous statue in her native city — ^her own Neapolis;
— that Parian face, before which all the beauty of the
Florentine Venus is poor and earthly — that aspect so
full of harmony — of youth — of genius — of the soul —
which modern critics have supposed the representation
of Psyche.-*

Her touch lingered over the braided hair and
polished brow — over the downy and damask cheek —
over the dimpled lip — the swan-like and whitest neck.
" I know, now, that thou art beautiful," she said ;
" and I can picture thee to my darkness henceforth,
and for ever ! "

When Nydia left her, lone sank into a deep but
delicious reverie. Glaucus, then, loved her ; he OAvned
it — yes, he loved her. She drew forth again that dear

* The wonderful remains of the statue so called in tlie Museo
Borbonico. The face, for sentiment and for feature, is the most
beautiful of all wliich ancient sculpture has bequeathed to us.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 189

confession ; she paused over every word, she kissed
every line ; she did not ask why he had been maligned,
she only felt assured that he had been so. She won-
dered how she had ever believed a syllable against him ;
she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to
exercise a power against Glaucus ; she felt a chill creep
over her as she again turned to his warning against
Arbaces, and her secret fear of that gloomy being
darkened mto awe. She was awakened from these
thoughts by her maidens, who came to announce to her
that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces was arrived ;
she started, she had forgotten the promise. Her first
impression was to renounce it ; her second, was to
laugh at her own fears of her eldest surviAdng friend.
She hastened to add the usual ornaments to her dress,
and, doubtful whether she should yet question the
Egyptian more closely with respect to his accusation of
Glaucus, or whether she should wait till, without
citing the authority, she should insinuate to Glaucus
the accusation itself, she took her way to the gloomy
mansion of Arbaces.

CHAP TEE VII.

lone entrapped— The Mouse tries to gnaw the Net.

" 0 DEAREST N'ydia!" exclaimed Glauciis as he read the
letter of lone, "whitest-robed messenger that ever passed
between earth and heaven — how, how shall I thank
tlieeV

" I am rewarded," said the poor Thessalian.

" To-morrow — to-morrow ! how shall I while the
hours till then"?"

The enamoured Greek would not let l^ydia escape
him, though she sought several times to leave the
chamber ; he made her recite to him over and over
again every syllable of the brief conversation that had
taken place between her and lone ; a thousand times,
forgetting her misfortune, he questioned her of the
looks, of the countenance of his beloved ; and then
quickly again excusing his fault, he bade her recom-
mence the whole recital which he had thus interrupted.
The hours thus painful to !N"ydia passed rapidly and
delightfully to him, and the twilight had already dark-
ened ere he once more dismissed her to lone with a
fresh letter and with neAV flowers. Scarcely had she
gone, than Clodius and several of his gay companions

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 191

broke in upon him ; they rallied him on his seclusion
timing the whole day, and his absence from his cus-
tomary haunts ; they invited him to accompany them
to the various resorts in that Hvely city, which night
and day proffered diversity to pleasure. Then, as now,
in the south (for no land, perhaps, losing more of great-
ness has retained more of custom), it was the delight
of the Italians to assemble at the evening ; and, imder
the porticos of temples or the shade of the gi-oves that
interspersed the streets, listening to music or the re-
citals of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising
moon Avith libations of wine and the melodies of song.
Glaucus was too happy to be unsocial ; he longed to
cast off the exuberance of joy that oppressed him. He
willingly accepted the proposal of his comrades, and
laughingly they sallied out together down the jjopulous
and glittering streets.

In the mean time Xydia once more gained the house
of lone, who had long left it ; she inquired indifferently
whither lone had gone.

The answer arrested and appalled her.

" To the house of Arbaces — of the Egyptian 1 Im-
possible ! "

" It is true, my little one," said the slave, who had
replied to her question. " She has known the Egyp-
tian long."

" Long ! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her ! " murmured
l!s'ydia to herself

" And has," asked she aloud — " has she often visited
him before 1 "

192 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Never till now," answered the slave. " If all the
ruinonred scandal of Pompeii he true, it would he het-
ter, perhaps, if she had not ventiued there at present.
But she, poor mistress mine, hears nothing of that
which reaches us ; the talk of the vestihulum reaches
not to the peristyle." *

" Never till now ! " repeated Nydia. "■ Art thou
sure?"

" Sure, pretty one : hut what is that to thee or to
usl"

Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down
the flowers with which she had been charged, she called
to the slave who had accompanied her, and left the
house without saying another word.

Not till she had got half-way back to the house of
Glaucus did she break silence, and even then she only
murmured inly : —

" She does not dream — she cannot — of the dangers
into which she has plunged. Fool that I am — shall I
save her ? — yes, for I love Glaucus better than myself."
When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she
learnt that he had gone out Math a party of his friends,
and none knew whither. He probably would not be
home before midnight.

The Thessalian groaned; she sank upon a seat in the
hall, and covered her face with her hands as if to collect
her thoughts. " There is no time to be lost," thought
she, starting up. She turned to the slave who had
accompanied her.

* Terence.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 193

" Knowest thou," said she, " if lone has any rela-
tive, any intimate friend at Pompeii 1 "

" Why, by Jupiter ! " answered the slave, " art thou
silly enough to ask the question ? Every one in Pompeii
knows that lone has a brother who, young and ricli,
has been — under the rose I speak — so foolish as to
become a priest of Isis."

" A priest of Isis ! 0 gods ! his name ? "

'* Aptecides."

" I know it all," muttered Kydia : " brother and sis-
ter, then, are to be both victims 1 Apaecides ! yes, that

was the name I heard in Ha ! he well, then,

knows the peril that surrounds his sister ; I \\dll go to
him."

She sprang up at that thought, and taking the statl"
which always guided her steps, she hastened to the
neighbouring shrine of Isis. Till she had been under
the guardianship of the kindly Greek, that staff had
sufficed to conduct the poor blind girl from corner to
corner of Pompeii. Every street, every turning in the
more frequented parts, was familiar to her ; and as the
inhabitants entertained a tender and half-superstitious
A^eneration for those subject to her infirmity, the pas-
sengers had always given way to her timid steps. Poor
girl, she little dreamed that she shoxild, ere very many
days were passed, find her blindness her protection,
and a guide far safer than the keenest eyes !

But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus,
he had ordered a slave to accompany her always ; and
the poor devil thus appointed, who was somewhat of

VOL. I. K

194 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the fattest, and who, after having twice performed the
journey to lone's house, now saw himself condemned
to a thu'd excursion (whither the gods only knew),
hastened after her, deploring his fate, and solemnly
assuring Castor and Pollux that he believed the blind
girl had the talaria of ]\Iercury as well as the infirmity
of Cupid.

IS'ydia, however, required but little of liis assistance
to find her way to the popular temple of Isis : the
space before it was now deserted, and she won Avithout
obstacle to the sacred rails.

" There is no one here," said the fat slave. " What
dost thou want, or whom 1 Knowest thou not that
the priests do not live in the temple 1 "

" Call out," said she, impatiently ; " night and day
there is always one flamen, at least, watching in the
shrines of Isis."

The slave called — no one appeared.

" Seest thou no one 1 "

" Ko one."

" Thou mistakest ; I hear a sigh : look again."

The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his
heavy eyes, and before one of the altars, whose remains
still crowd the narrow space, he beheld a form Ijcnding
as in meditation.

" I see a figure," said he ; " and by the white gar-
ments it is a priest."

" 0 flamen of Isis ! " cried jS^'ydia, " servant of the
Most Ancient, hear me ! "

" Who calls 1 " said a low and melancholy voice.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 195

" One "who has no common tidings to impart to a
member of your body; I come to declare and not to
ask oracles."

"With Avhom wouldst thou confer? This is no
liuur for thy conference ; depart, disturb me not : the
night is sacred to the gods, the day to men."

" Methinks I know thy voice ! thou art he whom
I seek ; yet I have heard thee speak but once before.
Art thou not the priest Apajcides?"

" I am that man," replied the priest, emerging from
the altar, and approaching the rail.

" Thou art ! the gods be praised ! " "Waving her
liand to the slave, she bade him withdraw to a dis-
tance ; and he, who naturally imagined some supersti-
tion, connected, perhaps, with the safety of lone, could
alone lead her to the temple, obeyed, and seated him-
self on the ground at a little distance. " Hush ! "
said she, speaking quick and low ; " art thou indeed
Apaecides?"

" If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my fea-
tures r'

" I am blind," answered Xydia ; " my eyes are in
my ear, and that recognises thee : yet swear that thou
art he."

" By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and l)y
the moon ! "

" Hush ! speak low — bend near — give me thy hand :
knowest thou Arbaces 1 Hast thou laid flowers at the
feet of the dead 1 Ah ! thy hand is cold — hark yet !
— hast thou taken the awful vow 1 "

196 THE LAST PAYS OF POMPETT.

" Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden?"
said Apsecides, fearfully : " I know thee not ; thine is
not the breast on which this head hath lain ; I have
never seen thee before."

" Bat thou hast heard my voice : no matter, those
recollections it should shame us both to recall. Listen,
thou hast a sister."

" Speak ! speak ! what of her 1"

" Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger,
— it jDleases thee, perhaps, to share them — would it
please thee to have thy sister a partaker ? Would it
please thee that Arbaces was her host ? "

" 0 gods, he dare not ! Girl, if thoia mockest me,
treml)le ! I will tear thee limb from limb ! "

" I speak the truth ; and wbile I sjieak, lone is in
the halls of Arbaces — for the first time his guest.
Thou knowest if there be peril in that first time !
Farewell ! I have fulfilled my charge."

" Stay ! stay ! " cried the priest, passing his wan
hand over his brow. " If this be true, what — what
can be done to save her? They may not admit me.
I know not all the mazes of that intricate mansion. 0
Kemesis ! justly am I punished ! "

" I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and
c,omrade ; I Avill lead thee to the private door of the
house : I will whisper to thee the word which admits.
Take some weapon : it may be needful ! "

" Wait an instant," said Apoecides, retiring into one
of the cells that flank the temple, and reappearing in
a few moments wrapjied in a large cloak, which was

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 197

tlien much worn by all classes, and which concealed
his sacred dress. " Xow," he said, grinding his teeth,
" if Arbaces hath dared to — but he dare not ! he dare
not ! Why shoiild I suspect him 1 Is he so base a
villam 1 I will not think it — yet, sophist ! dark be-
■vrilderer that he is ! 0 gods protect ! — hush ! are
there gods 1 Yes, there is one goddess, at least, whose
voice I can command I and that is — Vengeance ! "

Muttering these discomiected thoughts, Aptecides,
followed by his silent and sightless companion, has-
tened through the most solitary paths to the house
of the Eg}^tian.

The slave, abruptly dismissed by I^ydia, shrugged
his shoidders, muttered an adjuration, and, nothing
loath, rolled off to his cubicidiun.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Solitude and Soliloquy of the Egyptian. His Character
analysed.

We must go back a few hours in the progress of our
story. At the first grey dawn of the day, which
Ghiucus had already marked with white, the Egyptian
was seated, sleepless and alone, on the summit of the
lofty and pyramidal tower which flanked his house. A
tall parapet around it served as a wall, and conspired,
with the height of the edifice and the .gloomy trees
that girded the mansion, to defy the prying eyes of
curiosity or observation. A table, on which lay a
scroll, filled with mystic figures, was before him. On
high, the stars waxed dim and faint, and the shades
of night melted from the sterile mountain-tops ; only
above Vesuvius there rested a deep and massy cloud,
which for several days past had gathered darker and
more solid over its summit. The struggle of night
and day was more visil^le over the broad ocean, which
stretched calm, like a gigantic lake, bounded by the
circling shores that, covered with vines and foliage,
and gleaming here and there with the white walls of
sleeping cities, sloped to the scarce rippling waves.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 199

It was the hour above all others most sacred to the
daring science of the Egyptian — the science which
would read our changeful destinies in the stars.

He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment
and the sign ; and, leaning upon his hand, he had
surrendered himself to the thoughts wliich his calcu-
lation excited.

" Again do the stars forewarn me ! Some danger,
then, assuredly awaits me ! " said he, slowly ; " some
danger, violent and sudden in its natm-e. The stars
wear for me the same mocking menace which, if our
clu'onicles do not err, they once wore for Pyrrhus — for
him, doomed to strive for all things, to enjoy none —
all attacking, nothing gaining — battles without fruit,
laurels ■\Adthout triumph, fame without success ; at last
made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like a
dog by a tile from the hand of an old woman ! Yerily,
the stars flatter when they give me a type in this fool
of war — when they promise to the ardour of my wis-
dom the same results as to the madness of his ambi-
tion ; — perpetual exercise — no certain goal ; — the
Sisyphus task, the mountain and the stone ! — the
stone, a gloomy image ! — it reminds me that I am
tlu'eatened with somewhat of the same death as the
Epii'ote. Let me look again. * Beware,' say the
shining prophets, ' how thou passest under ancient
roofs, or besieged walls, or overhanging cliffs — a stone,
hiuied from above, is charged by the curses of destiny
against thee ! ' And, at no distant date from this,
comes the peril : but I cannot, of a certainty, read the

200 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

tlay and hour. Well ! if my glass runs low, the sands
shall sparlde to the last. Yet, if I escape tliis peril
— ay, if I escape — bright and clear as the moonlight
track along the waters glows the rest of my existence.
I see honours, happiness, success, sliining upon every
billow of the dark guK beneath which I must sink at
last. What, then, "vvith such destinies heyond the
perd, shall I succumb to the perd 1 My soid wliispers
hope, it sweeps exultingly beyond the boding hour, it
revels in the future — its own courage is its fittest
omen. If I were to perish so suddenly and so soon,
the shadow of death would darken over me, and I
should feel the icy presentiment of my doom. My
soul would express, in sadness and in gloom, its fore-
cast of the dreary Orcus. But it smiles — it assures me
of deliverance."

As he thus concluded his soldoquy, the Egyptian
involuntarUy rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space
of that star-roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet,
looked again upon the grey and melancholy heavens.
The chills of the faint dawn came refresliingly upon
his brow, and gradually liis mind resumed its natural
and collected calm. He withdrew his gaze from the
stars, as, one after one, they receded into the depths of
heaven; and his eyes fell over the broad expanse below.
Dim in the silenced port of the city rose the masts of
the galleys : along that mart of luxury and of laboxir
was stilled the mighty hum. ISTo lights, save here and
there from before the columns of a temple, or in the
]iorticos of the voiceless forum, broke the wan and

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 201

fluctuating light of the struggling morn. From the
heart of the torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a thou-
sand passions, there came no sound : the streams of
life circidated not; they lay locked under the ice of
sleep. From the huge space of the amphitheatre, vnth.
its stony seats rising one above the other — coiled and
round as some slumbering monster- — rose a tlun and
ghastly mist, which gathered darker, and more dark,
over the scattered foliage that gloomed under its \'icinity.
The city seemed as, after the aA\"ful change of seventeen
ages, it seems now to the traveller — a City of the
Dead.*

The ocean itself — that serene and tideless sea — lay
scarce less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came,
softened by the distance, a faint and regxdar murmur,
like the breathing of its sleep ; and curving for, as with
outstretched arms, into the green and beautiful land,
it seemed unconsciously to clasp to its breast the cities
sloping to its margin — Stabise, t and Herculaneum, and
Pompeii — those children and darlings of the deep.
" Ye slumber," said the Egyptian, as he scowled over
the cities, the boast and flower of Campania ; "ye
slumber ! — would it were the eternal repose of death !
As ye now — jewels in the crown of empire — so once
were the cities of the Nile ! Their greatness hath
perished from them, they sleep amidst ruins, their

* When Sir Walter Scott visited Pompeii with Sir William Gell,
almost his only remark was the exclamation, ' ' The City of the
Dead— the City of the Dead ! "

+ Stabise was indeed no longer a city, hut it was still a favourite
site for the villas of the rich.

202 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

palaces and their sliiiues are tombs, the serpent coils
in the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in their
solitary halls. By that mysterious law of IS'ature,
which humbles one to exalt the other, ye have thriven
upon their ruins ; thou, haughty Eome, hast usurped
the glories of Sesostris and Seniiramis — thou art a rob-
ber, clotliing thyself with their spoils ! And these —
slaves in thy triumph — that I (the last son of forgotten
monarchs) survey below, reservoirs of thine all-parad-
ing power and luxiuy, I curse as I behold ! The time
shall come when Egypt shall be avenged ! when the
barbarian's steed shall make his manger in the Golden
House of Nero ! and thou that hast sown the mnd
with conquest shalt reap the harvest in the whu-lwind
of desolation ! "

As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so
fearfully fidfilled, a more solemn and boding image of
ill omen never occurred to the dreams of painter or of
poet. The morning light, which can pale so waidy
even the young cheek of beauty, gave his majestic and
stately features almost the colours of the grave, with
the dark hair falling massively around them, and the
dark robes flowing long and loose, and tlie arm out-
stretched from that lofty eminence, and the glittering
eyes, fierce with a savage gladness — half prophet and
half fiend !

He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean ;
before him lay the vuieyards and meadows of the rich
Campania. The gate and walls — ancient, half Pelasgic
— of the city, seemed not to bound its extent. Villas

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 203

and \dUages stretched on every side up the ascent oi'
Vesuvius, not nearly then so steep or so lofty as at
I)resent. For as Eome itself is built on an exhausted
volcano, so in similar security the inhabitants of the
South tenanted the green and vine-clad places around
a volcano whose fires they believed at rest for ever.
From the gate stretched the long street of tombs,
various in size and architecture, by which, on that
side, the city is yet approached. Above all, rose the
cloud-capped smmnit of the Dread Moimtain, with the
sliadows, now dark, now light, betraying the mossy
caverns and ashy rocks, which testified the past con-
flagrations, and might have prophesied — but man is
blind — that which was to come !

Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes
why the tradition of the place Avore so gloomy and
stern a hue ; why, in those smiling plains, for miles
around — to Baiai and jNIisenum — the poets had imagined
the entrance and tlireshokls of theii' hell — their Acheron,
and their fabled Styx : why, in those Plilegrce,* now
laughing with the vine, they placed the battles of the
gods, and supposed the darmg Titans to have sought
the \dctory of heaven — save, indeed, that yet, in yon
seared and blasted siunmit, fancy might think to read
the characters of the Olympian thunderbolt.

But it was neither the rugged height of the still

volcano, nor the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the

melancholy avenue of tombs, nor the glittering idllas

of a polished and luxurious people, that now arrested

*0r, Phlegrcei Cam])i ; viz., scorched or burned fields.

204 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the eye of the Egyptian. On one part of the land-
scape, the mountain of Vesuvius descended to the plain
in a narrow and uncultivated ridge, broken here and
there by jagged crags and copses of wild foliage. At
the base of this lay a marshy and unwholesome pool ;
and the intent gaze of Arbaces caught the outline of
some living form moving by the marshes, and stooping
ever and anon as if to pluck its rank produce.

" Ho !" said he, aloud, " I have, then, another com-
panion in these unworldly night-watches. The witch
of Vesuvius is abroad. What ! doth she, too, as the
credidous imagine — doth she, too, learn the lore of the
great stars 1 Hath she been uttering foid magic to the
moon, or culling (as her pauses betoken) foul herbs
from the venomous marsh 1 Well, I must see this
fellow-labourer. Whoever strives to know learns that
no liuman lore is despicable. Despicable only you —
ye fat and bloated things — slaves of luxiuy — sluggards
in thought — who, cultivating nothing but the barren
sense, dream that its poor soil can produce alike the
myrtle and the laurel ! 'No, the Avise only can enjoy —
to us only true luxury is given, when mind, brain,
invention, experience, thought, learning, imagination,
all contribute like rivers to swell the seas of sense ! —
lone !"

As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his
thoughts sank at once into a more deep and profound
channel. His steps paused ; he took not his eyes from
the ground ; once or twice he smiled joyously, and then,
as he turned from his place of vigil, and sought his

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 205

ciiucli, he muttered, " If death frowns so near, I will
say at least that I have lived — lone shall be mine ! "

The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate
and varied webs, in wliich even the mind that sat
within it was sometimes confused and perplexed. In
him, the son of a fellen dynasty, the outcast of a sunken
jieople, was that spirit of discontented pride, Avhich
ever rankles in one of a sterner mould, who feels him-
self inexorably shut from the sphere in Avhich his
fathers shone, and to which !N'atiu-e as well as birth no
less entitles himself. This sentiment hath no benevo-
lence ; it wars with society, it sees enemies in mankind.
But with tliis sentiment did not go its common com-
panion, poverty. Arbaces possessed wealth which
equalled that of most of the Roman nobles ; and this
enabled him to gratify to the utmost the passions
which had no outlet in business or ambition. Travel-
ling from clime to clime, and beholding still Rome
everywhere, he increased Ijoth his hatred of society and
his passion for pleasure. He was in a vast prison,
which, however, he could fill with the ministers of
luxury. He could not escape from the prison, and his
only object, therefore, was to give it the character of
the palace. Th£_Eg^tians, from the earliest time,
were devoted to the joysj)f sguse-j Arbaces inhemed
bothmeiFappetite for sensuality and the glow of ima-
gination Avliich struck light from its rottenness. But
still, unsocial in his pleasures as in his gi-aver pursuits,
and brooking neither superior nor equal, he admitted
few to his companionsliip, save the willing slaves of

206 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

liis profligacy. He was the solitary lord of a crowded
harem ; but, Avith all, he felt condemned to that satiety
which is the constant curse of men whose intellect is
above their piu'suits, and that which once had been
the impulse of passion froze down to the ordinance of
custom. From the disappointments of sense he sought
to raise himself by the cultivation of knowledge ; but
as it was not his object to serve mankind, so he de-
spised that knowledge which is practical and useful.
His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those
more visionary and obscure researches which are ever
the most delightful to a wayward and sohtary mind,
and to which he himself was invited by the daring
l)ride of his disposition and the mysterious traditions
of his clime. Dismissing faith in the confused creeds
I if the heathen world, he reposed the greatest faith in
the power of human wisdom. He did not know (per-
haps no one in that age distinctly did) the limits which
Natiu-e imposes upon our discoveries. kSeeing that the
higher we mount in knowledge the more wonders we
behold, he imagined that Nature not only worked
miracles in her ordinary course, but that she might, by
the cabala of some master-soul, be diverted from that
course itself. Thus he perused science, across her ap-
pointed boundaries, into the land of jjerplexity and
shadow. From the truths of astronomy he wandered
into astrological fallacy ; from the secrets of chemistry
he passed into the spectral labyrinth of magic ; and he
who could be sceptical as to the power of the gods, was
credulously superstitious as to the power of man.

I

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 207

The cultivation of magicj carried at that day to a
singular height among the would-be wise, \vas^ especially
Eastern^jn jts origin ; it was alien to the early philoso-
phy of the GreekSj^ nor had it been received by them
with favour until Ostanes, who accompanied the army
of Xerxes, introduced, among the simple credidities of
Hellas, the solemn superstitions of Zoroaster, Under
the Eoman emperors it had become, however, natiu-al-
Jsed_.at Eomc (a meet subject for Juvenal's fiery Avit).
Intimat(^Iy connected with magic was the Avorship of
Isis^ and the Egyptian religion was the means by which
was extended the devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The
theurgic or benevolent magic— the goetic, or dark and
evQ necromancy — were alike in pre-eminent repute
during the first century of the Cln'istian era ; and the
marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those of
Apollonius.* I'^ngs, courtiers, and sages, all trembled
before the professors of the dread science. And not
the least remarkable of his tribe was the formidable and
profomid Arbaces. His fame and his discoveries were
known to all the cultivators of magic ; they even sur-
vived himself. But it was not by his real name that
he was honoured by the sorcerer and the sage : liis
real name, indeed, was unknown in Italy, for "Axbaces'"
Avas not a genuinely Egyptian but a Median appellation,"
which, in the admixture and unsettlement of the
ancient races, had become common in the countr}' of
the Nile ; and there were various reasons, not only of
jiride, but of policy (for in youth he had conspired
* See note («) at the eud.

208 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

against the majesty of Rome), which induced him to
conceal his true name and rank. But neither by the
name he had borrowed from the Mede, nor by that
wliich in the colleges of Egypt would have attested his
origin from kings, did the cultivators of magic acknow-
ledge the potent master. He received from their
homage a more mystic appellation, and was long re-
membered in Magna Graecia and the Eastern plains by
the name of " IJermes^Jiie Lord of the Flaming Belt."
His subtle speculations and boasted attributes of wis-
dom, recorded in various volumes, were among those
tokens "of the curious arts" which the Christian con-
verts most joyfully, yet most fearfuUy, burned at
Ephesus, depriving posterity of the proofs of the cun-
ning of the fiend.

The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect
— it was awed by no moral laws. If man imposed
these checks upon the herd, so he believed that man,
by superior wisdom, could raise himself above them.
"If^^he reasoned] T have the genius to impose laws,
have I not the right to command my own creations ?
Still more, have I not the right to control — to evade —
to scorn — the fabrications of yet meaner intellects than
my own?" Thus, if he were a villain, he justified his
\'illany by what ought to have made liim "vni-tuous —
namely, the elevation of his capacities.

Most men have more or less the passion for power ;
in Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his
character. It was riot the passion for an external and
brute authority. He desired not the purple and the

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 209

fasces, tlie insignia of vulgar command. His youthful
ambition once foiled and defeated, scorn had supplied
its place ; his pride, his contempt for Eome — Eome,
which had become the synonyme of the world — Eome,
whose haughty name he regarded with the same disdain
as that which Eome herself lavished upon the barba-
rian— did not permit him to aspire to sway over others,
for that Avould render him at once the tool or creature
of the emperor. He, the Son of the Great Eace of
Eameses — lie exedute the orders of, and receive his
power from, another ! — the mere notion filled him with
rage. But in rejecting an ambition that coveted no-
minal distinctions, he but indulged the more in the
ambition to rule the heart. Honouring mental power
as the greatest of earthly gifts, he loved to feel that
power palpably in himself, by extending it over all
whom he encountered. Thus had he ever sought the
yomig — thus had he ever fascinated and controlled
them. He loved to find subjects in men's souls — to
rule over an invisible and immaterial empire ! — had he
been less sensual and less wealthy, he might have
sought to become the founder of a new religion. As it
was, his energies were checked by his pleasures. Be-
sides, however, the vague love of this moral sway,
(vanity so dear to sages !) he was influenced by a sin-
gular and dreamlike devotion to all that belonged to
the mystic Land his ancestors had swayed. Although
he disbelieved in her deities, he believed in the allego-
ries they represented (or rather he interpreted those
VOL. I. o

210 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

allegories anew). He loved to keep aliye^tlie icorsMp
of Egypt, because he tlius maintained the shadow and
the recollection of her poioer. He loaded, therefore, the
altars of Osiris and of Isis with regal donations, and
was ever anxious to dignify their priesthood by new
and wealthy converts. The vow taken — the priesthood
embraced — he usually chose the comrades of his plea-
sures from those whom he had made his victims, partly
because he thus seciu^ed to himself their secrecy — partly
because he thus yet more confirmed to himseK his
l^ecidiar power. Hence the motives of his conduct to
Apfficides, strengthened as these were, in that instance, .
by his passion for lone.

He had seldom lived long in one jjlace ; but as he
grew older, he grew more wearied of the excitement of
new scenes, and he had sojourned among the delight-
ful cities of Campania for a period which sui'prised
even himself. In fact, his pride somewhat cripi^led
his choice of residence. His unsuccessful consjDiracy
excluded him from those burning climes which he
deemed of right his own hereditary possessions, and
which now cowered, supine and sunken, under the
Avings of the Eoman eagle. Eome herself was hateful
to his indignant soul ; nor did he love to find his
riches rivalled by the minions of the coui't, and cast
into comparative poverty by the mighty magnificence
of the court itself. The Campanian cities proflered to
him aU that his nature craved — the luxuries of an
unequalled climate — the imaginative refinements of a
voluptuous civilisation. He was removed from the

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 211

sight of a superior ■wealth ; lie was without rivals to
his riches ; he was free from the spies of a jealous
court. As long as he was rich, none pried into his
conduct. He pursued the dark tenor of his way un-
disturhed and secure.

It is the curse of sensualists never to love till the
pleasures of sense begin to pall ; their ardent youth is
frittered away in countless desires — their hearts are
exhausted. So, ever chasing love, and taught by a
restless imagination to exaggerate, perhaps, its charms,
the Egyptian had spent all the glory of his years with-
out attaining the object of his desires. The beauty
of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of to-day, and the
shadows bewildered him in his pursuit of the sub-
stance. When, two years before the present date, he
beheld lone, he saAv, for the first time, one whom he
imagined he could love. He_stood, then, upon that
brid^e_Qf-_iife,- ircm. which, man sees before him dis-
tinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the dark-
ness of approaching^age u2;)on the other : a time in
which we are more than ever anxious, perhaps, to
secure to ourselves, ere it be yet too late, whatever we
liave been taught to consider necessary to the enjoy-
ment of a life of which the brighter half is gone.

"\Tith an earnestness and a patience Avhich he had
never before commanded for liis pleasures, Arbaces
had devoted himself to "win the heart of lone. It did
not content him to love, he desired to be loved. Li tliis
hope he had watched the expanding youth of the
beautiful ]S'eapolitan ; and, knowing the influence that

212 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the mind possesses over tliose who are taught to culti-
vate the mind, he had contributed willingly to form
the genius and enlighten the intellect of lone, in the
liQ-pe that she Avould be thus able to appreciate what
he felt would be his best claim to her affection : viz., a
character whicli, however criminal and jierverted, was
rich in its original elements of strength and grandeur.
"Wlien he felt that character to be acknowledged, he
willingly allowed, nay, encouraged her to mix among
the idle votaries of pleasure, in the belief that her soul,
fitted for liigher commune, woidd miss the companion-
sliip of his own, and that, in comparison with others,
she would learn to love herself He had forgot that,
as the simflower to the sun, so youth turns to youth,
until his jealousy of Glaucus suddenly apprised him of
his error. From that moment, though, as we have
seen, he knew not the extent of his danger, a fiercer
and more tumultuous direction Avas given to a passion
long controlled. Notliing kindles the fire of love like
a sprinkling of the anxieties of jealousy ; it takes then
a wilder, a more resistless flame ; it forgets its soft-
ness ; it ceases to be tender ; it assumes something of
the intensity — of the ferocity — of hate.

Arbaces resolved to lose no further tune upon cautious
and perilous preparations : he resolved to place an irre-
vocable barrier between himself and his rivals : he
resolved to possess Iximself of the person of lone : not
that in liis present love, so long nursed and fed by
hopes jDurer than those of passion alone, he Avould
have been contented with that mere possession. He

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 213

desired tlie heart, tlie soiil, no less tlicaii the beauty, of
lone ; but he imagined that, once separated by a daring
L'rinie from the rest of mankind — once bound to lone
by a tie that memorj' could not break, she would be
driven to concentrate her thoughts in him — that his
arts would complete his conquest, and that, according
to the true moral of the Eoman and the Sabine, the
empire obtained by force would be cemented by gentler
means. Tliis resolution was yet more confirmed in
him by his belief in the prophecies of the stars : they
had long foretold to him this year, and even the pre-
sent month, as the epoch of some dread disaster,
menacing life itself. He was driven to a certain and
limited date. He resolved to crowd, monarch-like, on
liis funeral pyre all that his soul held most dear. In
his own words, if he were to die, he resolved to feel
that he had lived, and that lone should be his own.

CHAPTER IX.

What becomes of lone in the House of Arbaces — The First
Signal of the Wrath of the Dread Foe.

When lone entered the spacious hall of the Egj-ptian,
the same awe which had crept over her brother im-
pressed itself also upon her : there seemed to her as to
him something ominous and warning in the still and
mournful faces of those dread Theban monsters, whose
majestic and passionless features the marble so well
portrayed :

" Their look, with the reach of jiast a.^es, was wise,
And the soul of eternity thought in their eyes."

The tall Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted
her, and motioned to her to proceed. Half-way up
the hall she was met by Arbaces himself, in festive
robes, wliich glittered with jeAvels. Although it Avas
broad day without, the mansion, according to the prac-
tice of the luxurious, was artificially darkened, and the
lamps cast their still and odour-giving light over the
rich floors and ivory roofs.

" Beautiful lone," said Arbaces, as he bent to touch

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 215

her hand, "it is you that have eclipsed the day — it is
youi' eyes that light up the halls — it is your breath
■vvhich fills them with perfumes."

" You must not talk to me thus," said lone, smiling :
'' you forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed
n.y mind to render these graceful flatteries to my per-
son unwelcome. It was you who taught nie to disdain
adulation : will you unteach your pupil 1 "

There was something so frank and channing in the
manner of lone, as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian
was more than ever enamoured, and more than ever
disposed to renew the offence he had committed ; he,
however, answered quickly and gaily, and hastened to
renew the conversation.

He led her through the various chambers of a house
which seemed to contain to her eyes, inexperienced to
other splendour than the minute elegance of Campan-
ian cities, the treasures of the world.

In the walls were set pictures ofinestimable art,
the lights shone over statues of the noblest age of
Greece. Cabmets of gems, each cabinet itself a gem,
filled up the interstices of the columns ; the most
precious woods lined the thresholds and composed
the doors ; gold and jewels seemed lavished all around.
Sometimes they were alone in these rooms — sometimes
they passed through silent rows of slaves, who, kneel-
ing as she passed, proffered to her offerings of brace-
lets, of chains, of gems, which the Egj'ptian vainly
entreated her to receive.

" I have often heai'd," said she, wonderingly, " that

216 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

you were rich, bi;t I never dreamed of the amount of
your wealth."

"Would I coin it all," replied the Egyptian, "into one
crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow 1 "

" Alas ! the weight would crush me ; I shoidd be a
second Tarpeia," answered lone, laiighingly.

" But thou dost not disdain riches, 0 lone ! they
know not what life is capable of who are not wealth/,
(xold is the great magician of earth — it realises OTir
dreams — it gives them the power of a god^there h
a grandeur, a sublimity, in its possession ; it is the
mightiest, yet the most obedient of our slaves."

The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Nea-
l)olitan by his treasures and his eloquence ; he sought
to awaken in her the desire to be mistress of what she
surveyed : he hoped that she would confound the
owner with the possessions, and that the charms of
his wealth would be reflected on himself. Meanwhile
lone was secretly somewhat uneasy at the gallantries
which escaped from those lips, Avhich, till lately, had
seemed to disdain the common homage we pay to
beauty : and with that delicate subtlety, which Avoman
alone possesses, she sought to ward off shafts deliberately
aimed, and to laugh or to talk away the meaning from
his warming language. Nothing in the world is more
pretty than that same species of defence ; it is the
charm of the African necromancer who professed with
a feather to turn aside tlie winds.

The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her
grace even more than by her beauty ; it was with

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 217

ilitiiculty that he suppressed his emotions; alas! the
leather was only powerful against the summer breezes
— it would be tlie sport of the storm.

Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was sur-
1 ounded by draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian
(lapped his hands, and as if by enchantment, a ban-
4uet rose from the floor — a couch or throne, with a
• •rimson canopy, ascended simidtaneously at the feet of
lone, — and at the same instant from behind the cur-
tains swelled the invisible and softest music.

Arbaces placed himself at the feet of lone, and
I'liildren, young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to
the feast.

The feast was over, the music sank into a low and
subdued strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beauti-
fid guest : —

" Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world
— hast thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond —
hast thou never wished to put aside the veil of
futurity, and to behold on the shores of Fate the
shadowy images of things to be'? For it is not the
past alone that has its ghosts : each event to come has
also its spectrum — its shade ; when the hour arrives,
life enters it, the shadow becomes corporeal, and walks
the world. Thus, in the land beyond the grave, are
ever two impalpable and spiritual hosts — the things to
be, the things that have been ! If by our wisdom we
can penetrate that land, Ave see the one as the other,
and learn, as / have learned, not alone the mysteries
of the dead, but also the destiny of the living."

218 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,

" As thou hast learned ! — Can "wisdom attain so
far?"

" Wilt thou prove my knowledge, lone, and behold
the representation of tliine own fate 1 It is a drama
more striking than those of ^schylus : it is one I
have prepared for thee, if thou wilt see the shadows
perform their part."

The Neapolitan trembled ; she thought of Glaucus,
and sighed as well as trembled ; were their destinies
to be united? Half incredulous, half believing, half
awed, half alarmed by the words of her strange host,
she remained for some moments silent, and then an-
swered—

''It may revolt — it may terrify; the knowledge of
the future will perhaps only embitter the present ! "

"Not so, lone. I have myself looked upon thy
future lot, and the ghosts of thy Futm-e bask in the
gardens of Elysium : amidst the asphodel and the rose
they prepare the garlands of thy sweet destiny, and
the Fates, so harsh to others, weave only for thee the
web of happiness and love. "Wilt thou then come and
behold thy doom, so that thou mayest enjoy it before-
hand?"

Again the heart of lone murmured " Glaucus ;" she
uttered a half-audible assent ; the Egyptian rose, and
taking her by the hand, he led her across the banquet-
room — the curtains withdrew, as by magic hands,
and the music broke forth in a louder and gladder
strain ; they passed a row of columns, on either side of
which fountains cast aloft their fragi'aiit waters ; they

THE LAST DAYS OF POJIPEII. 219

descended by broad and easy steps into a garden.
The eve had commenced ; the moon was akeady high
in heaven, and those sweet flowers that sleep by day,
and fill, with ineffable odours, the airs of night, were
tliickly scattered amidst alleys cut tlu'ough the star-lit
foliage ; — or, gathered in baskets, lay like offerings at
the feet of the fi'equent statues that gleamed along
tlieir path.

" AATiither wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces ] " said
lone, wonderingly.

" But yonder," said he, pointing to a small building
which stood at the end of the vista. " It is a temple
consecrated to the Fates — our rites require such holy
ground."

They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which
himg a sable curtain. Axbaces lifted it ; lone entered,
and found herself in total darkness.

"Be not alarmed," said the Egyptian, "the light
will rLse instantly." Wliile he so spoke, a soft, and
Avarm, and gradual light diffused itself around; as it
spread over each object, lone perceived that she was
in an apartment of moderate size, hung everjnvhere
with black ; a couch ^\iih. draperies of the same hue
was beside her. In the centre of the room was a
small altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze. At
one side, upon a lofty column of granite, was a colossal
head of the blackest marble, which she perceived, by
the crown of wheat-ears that encircled the brow, repre-
sented the great Egj^ptian goddess. Arbaces stood
before the altar ; he had laid his garland on the shrine,

220 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

and seemed occupied with pouring into the tripod the
contents of a brazen vase ; suddenly from that tripod
leaped into lile a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame ;
the Egyptian drew back to the side of lone, and
muttered some words in a language unfamihar to her
ear ; the ciu'tain at the back of the altar waved tremu-
lously to and fro — it parted slowly, and in the aperture
which was thus made, lone beheld an indistinct and
pale landscape, which gradually grew brighter and
clearer as she gazed : at length she discovered plainly
trees, and rivers, and meadows, and all the beautiful
diversity of the richest earth. At length, before the
landscape, a dim shadow glided ; it rested ojDposite to
lone ; slowly the same charm seemed to operate upon it
as over the rest of the scene; it took form and shape, and
lo ! — in its feature and in its form, lone beheld herself !

Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and
was succeeded l)y the representation of a gorgeous
palace ; a tlii'one was raised in the centre of its hall
— the dim forms of slaves and guards were ranged
around it, and a pale hand held over the tin-one the
likeness of a diadem.

A new actor noAV appeared ; he was clothed from
head to foot in a dark robe — his face was concealed —
he knelt at the feet of the shadowy lone — he clasped
her hand — he pointed to the throne, as if to invite her
to ascend it.

The Keapoli tan's heart beat violently. " Shall the
shadow disclose itself?" whispered a voice beside her
— the voice of Arbaccs.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 221

'' Ah, yes ! " answered lone, softly.

Arbaces raised his hand — the spectre seemed to drop
the mantle that concealed its form — and lone shrieked:
it Avas Arbaces himself that thns knelt before her.

" This is, indeed, thy fate I " whispered again the
Egyptian's voice in her ear. " And thou art destined
1(1 be the bride of Arbaces."

lone started — the black curtain closed over the
l»hantasniagoria : and Arbaces himself — the real, the
liA^ng Arbaces — was at her feet.

" Oh, lone ! " said he, passionately gazing upon her ;
" listen to one who has long struggled vainly with his
love. I adore thee ! — the Fates do not lie — thou art
destined to be mine — I have sought the world around,
and found none like thee. From my youth upward, I
have sighed for such as thou art. I have dreamed till
I saw thee — I wake, and I behold thee. Turn not
away from me, lone ; think not of me as thou hast
thought ; I am not that being — cold, insensate, and
morose, which I have seemed to thee. ISTever woman
had lover so devoted — so passionate as I will be to
lone. Do not struggle in my clasp : see — I release
thy hand. Take it from me if thou wilt — -well, be it
so ! But do not reject me, lone — do not rashly reject;
judge of thy power over him whom thou canst thus
transform, I who never knelt to mortal being, kneel
to thee. I who have commanded fate, receive from
thee my own. lone, tremble not, thou art my queen
— my goddess : — be my bride ! All the wishes thou
canst form shall be fulfilled. The ends of the earth

222 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

shall minister to thee — pomp, power, luxury, shall be
thy slaves. Arhaces shall have no ambition, save the
pride of obe}dng thee. lone, turn upon me those eyes
— shed upon me thy smile. Dark is my soul when
thy face is hid from it ; — shine over me, my sun — my
heaven — my daylight ! — lone, lone — do not reject my
love ! "

Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful
man, lone was not yet terrified ; the respect of his
language, the softness of his voice, reassured her ; and
in her own purity she felt protection. But she was
confused — astonished ; it was some moments before
she could recover the power of reply.

" Eise, Arbaces ! " said she at length ; and she re-
signed to hun once more her hand, which she as
quickly withdrew again, when she felt upon it the
burning pressure of his lips. " Eise ! and if thou art
serious — if thy language be in earnest "

"If!" said he, tenderly.

" Well, then, listen to me ; you have been my guar-
dian, my friend, my monitor ; for this new character I
was not prepared; think not," she added quickly, as
she saw his dark eyes glitter with the fierceness of his
passion — " think not that I scorn — that I am untouched
— that I am not honoured by this homage ; but, say —
canst thou hear me calmly ■? "

"Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could
blast me ! "

"/ love another!" said lone, blushingly, but in a
firm voice.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 223

" By the gods — by hell ! " shouted Arbaces, rising
to his fullest height; "dare not tell me that — dare
not mock me : it is impossible ! Whom hast thou
seen — whom known 1 Oh, lone ! it is thy woman's
invention, thy woman's art that speaks — thou wouldst
■j:idn time : I have surprised — I have terrified thee. Do
Avith me as thou wilt — say that thou lovest not me ;
liut say not that thou lovest another !"

" Alas ! " began lone ; and then, appalled before
liis sudden and uidooked-for violence, she burst into
tears.

Arbaces came nearer to her — his breath glowed
liorcely on her cheek; he wound his arms round her
— she sprang from his embrace. In the struggle a
tablet fell from her bosom on the ground : Arbaces
lierceived and seized it— it was the letter that morn-
ing received from Glaucus. lone sank iipon the
couch, half dead with terror.

Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the -writing ;
the Neapolitan did not dare to gaze upon him : she
did not see the deadly paleness that came over liis
countenance — she marked not his withering frown,
nor the quivering of his lip, nor the convulsions that
heaved his breast. He read it to the end, and then,
as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice of
deceitful calmness —
' " Is the writer of tliis the man thou lovest 1 "

lone sobbed, but answered not.

" Speak !" he rather shrieked than said.
. " It is— it is ! "

224 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

"And his name — it is written here — his name is
Glaucus ! "

lone, clasping her hands, looked round as for succour
or escape.

" Then hear me," said Arbaces, sinking his voice
into a whisper ; " thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than
to his arms ! What ! thinkest thou Arliaces will brook
a rival such as this puny Greek 1 What ! thinkest
thou tliat he has watched the fruit ripen, to yield it
to another 1 Pretty fool — no ! Thou art mine — all —
only mine : and thus — thus I seize and claim thee ! "
As he spoke, he caught lone in his arms ; and, in that
ferocioTis grasp, was all the energy — less of love than
of revenge.

But to lone despair gave supernatural strength ; she
again tore herself from him — she rushed to that part
of the room by which she had entered — she half with-
drew the curtain — he seized her — again she broke away
from him — and fell, exhausted, and with a loud shriek,
at the l.iase of the column which supported the head of
the Egyptian goddess. Arbaces paused for a moment,
as if to regain his breath : and then once more darted
upon his prey.

At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside,
the Egyptian felt a fierce and strong grasji upon his
shoulder. He turned — he beheld before him the flash-
ing eyes of Glaucus, and the jDale, worn, but menacing,
countenance of Apa-cides. " Ah ! " he muttered, as he
glared from one to the other, *'what Fury hath sent ye
hither r'

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 225

" Ate," answered Glaucus ; and he closed at once
with the Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apaecides raised his
sister, now lifeless, from the ground ; his strength,
ixhausted by a mind long o^'er^\^.•ought, did not suffice
to bear her away, light and delicate though her shape :
h'^ placed her, therefore, on the couch, and stood over her
Miih a brandishing knife, watching the contest between
Glaucus and the Egyptian, and ready to plunge his
weapon in the bosom of Arbaces shoidd he be \dc-
torious in the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothing on
earth so terrible as the naked and unarmed contest of
animal strength, no weapon but those which Nature
supplies to rage. Both the antagonists were now
locked in each other's grasp — the hand of each seeking
the throat of the other — the face drawn back — the
fierce eyes flasliing — the muscles strained — the veins
swelled — the hps apart — the teeth set ; — both were
strong beyond the ordinary power of men, both ani-
mated by relentless wrath ; they coiled, they wound
around each other ; they rocked to and fro — they
SAvayed from end to end of their confined arena ; —
they uttered cries of ire and revenge ; — they were now
before the altar— now at the base of the column where
tlie struggle had commenced : they drew back for breath
— Arbaces leaning against the column — Glaucus a few
paces apart.

" 0 ancient goddess!" exclaimed Arbaces, clasping
the column, and raising his eyes toAvard the sacred
image it supported, " protect thy chosen, — proclaim thy

VOL. I. r

226 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

vengeance against this thing of an upstart creed, who
with sacrilegious violence profanes thy resting-place,
and assails thy servant."

As he spoke, the still and vast features of the god-
iless seemed suddenly to glow with life ; through the
black marble, as through a transparent veil, flushed
luminously a crimson and burning hue ; around the
head played and darted coruscations of livid lightning ;
the eyes became like balls of lurid fire, and seemed
tixed in withering and intolerable wrath vipon the
countenance of the Greek. Awed and appalled by
this sudden and mystic answer to the prayer of his foe,
and not free from the hereditary superstitions of his
race, the cheeks of Glaucus paled before that strange
and ghastly animation of the marble, — his knees
knocked together, — he stood, seized with a divine
])anic, dismayed, aghast, half unmanned before his
foe ! Arbaces gave him not breathing-time to recover
his stupor: "Die, Avretch !" he shouted, in a voice of
thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek ; " the Mighty
Mother claims thee as a Hving sacrifice !" Taken thus
by surprise in the first consternation of his superstitious
fears, the Greek lost Iris footing — the marble floor was
as smooth as glass — he slid — he fell. Arbaces planted
his foot on the breast of his fallen foe. Apa^cides,
taught by his sacred profession, as Avell as by his know-
ledge of Arbaces, to distrust all miracidous interposi-
tions, had not shared the dismay of his companion ; he
rushed forward, — his knife gleamed in the air, — the
watclifid . Egyptian caught his arm as it descended, —

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 227

( >ne wreiicli of his powerful hand tore the weapon from
the weak grasp of the priest, — one sweeping blow
stretched him to the earth — Avith a loud and exulting
}'eU Arbaces brandished the knife on liigh. Glaucus
uazed upon his impending fate ^Wth unwinking eyes, and
in the stern and scornful resignation of a fallen gladi-
ator, when, at that aAvful instant, the floor shook under
them mth a rapid and convulsive throe, — a mightier
spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad ! — a giant
and crushing power, before Avhich sank into sudden im-
I lotence his passion and his arts. It woke — it stirred —
t hat Dread Demon of the Earthquake — laughing to
scorn alike the magic of human gniile and the malice of
liuman A^Tath. As a Titan, on whom the mountains
are piled, it roused itself from the sleep of years, — it
moved on its tortured couch, — the caverns below
groaned and trembled beneath the motion of its limbs.
In the moment of his vengeance and his power, the
self-prized demigod was humbled to his real clay. Far
and wide along the sod went a hoarse and rumbling-
sound, — the curtains of the chamber shook as at the
blast of a storm, — the altar rocked — the tripod reeled,
— and, high over the place of contest, the column
trembled and waved from side to side, — the sable head
I if the goddess tottered and fell from its pedestal I — and
as the Egyptian stooped above his intended victim, right
upon his bended form, right between the shoulder and
the neck, struck the marble mass ! the shock stretched
him like the blow of death, at once, suddenly, without
sound or motion, or semblance of life, upon the floor,

228 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

apparently crushed by the very divinity he had im-
piously animated and invoked !

" The Earth has preserved her children," said Glau-
cus, staggering to his feet. " Blessed be the dread con-
vulsion ! Let us worship the providence of the gods !"
He assisted Apsecides to rise, and then turned upward
the fece of Arbaces ; it seemed locked as in death ;
blood gushed from the Egyptian's lips over his glitter-
ing robes ; he fell heavily from the arms of Glaucus,
and the red stream trickled slowly along the marble.
Again the earth shook beneath their feet ; they were
forced to cling to each other : the convulsion ceased as
suddenly as it came ; they tarried no longer ; Glaucus
bore lone lightly in his arms, and they fled from the un-
hallowed spot. But scarce had they entered the garden
than they were met on all sides by flying and disordered
groups of women and slaves, whose festive and glitter-
ing garments contrasted in mockery the solemn terror
of the hour ; they did not appear to heed the strangers
— they were occupied oidy with their own fears. After
the tranquillity of sixteen years, that burning and treach-
erous soil again menaced destruction ; they uttered but
one cry, " the earthquake ! the earthquake !" and
passing unmolested from the midst of them, Apsecides
and Ms companions, without entering the house, hast-
ened do-^vn one of the alleys, passed a small open gate,
and there, sitting on a little mound over which spread
the gloom of the dark-green aloes, the moonlight fell
on the bended figure of the blind girl, — she was weep-
ing bitterly.

BOOK III.

C H A P T E E I.

Tlie Forum of the Pompeians — The first Rude Machinery by
which the New Era of the World was Wrouglit.

It was early noon, and tlie forum Avas crowded alike
with the busy ami the idle. As at Paris at this day,
so at that tune iii the cities of Italy, men lived almost
wholly out of doors : the public buildings, the forum,
the porticos, the baths, the temples themselves, might
be considered their real homes ; it was no wonder that
they decorated so gorgeously these favourite places of
resort ; they felt for them a sort of domestic affection
as well as a pubhc pride. And animated was, indeeil,
the aspect of the forum of Pompeii at that time !
Along its broad pavement, composed of large flags of
marble, were assembled various groups, conversing in
that energetic fashion which appropriates a gesture to
every word, and which is still the characteristic of the
people of the south. Here, in seven stalls on one side

230 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

the colonnade, sat the money-cliangers, with their glit-
tering heaps before them, and merchants and seamen
in various costumes crowding round their stalls. On
one side, several men in long togas* were seen bustling
rapidly up to a stately edifice, where the magistrates
administered justice; — these were the lawyers, active,
chattering, joking, and punning, as you may find them
at this day in "Westminster. In the centre of the
space, jiedestals supported various statues, of which
the most remarkable was the stately form of Cicero.
Around the court ran a regular and symmetrical colon-
nade of Doric architecture ; and there several, Avliose
business drew them early to the place, were taking the
slight morning repast which made an Italian breakfast,
talking vehemently on the earthquake of the preceding
night as they dipped pieces of bread in their cups of
diluted wine. In the open space, too, you might per-
ceive various petty traders exercising the arts of their
calling. Here one man was holding out ribbons to a
fair dame from the country ; another man was vaunt-
ing to a stout farmer the excellence of his shoes ; a
third, a kind of stall-restaurateur, still so common in
the Italian cities, was supplying many a hungry mouth
with hot messes from his small and itinerant stove ;
wliile — contrast strongly typical of the mingled bustle
and intellect of the time — close by, a schoolmaster was
expounding to his puzzled pupils the elements of the

* For the lawyers, and the clients, when attending on tlieir
patrons, retained tlie toga after it had fallen into disuse among
the rest of the citizens.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 231

Latin grammar.* A gallery above the portico, wliicli
was ascended by small wooden staircases, had also its
throng ; though, as here the immediate business of the
place was mainly carried on, its groups wore a more
ipiiet and serious air.

Every now and then the crowd below respectfully
L;ave way as some senator swept along to the Temple
I )f Jupiter (wliich filled up one side of the forum, and
\vas the senators' hall of meeting), nodding with osten-
tatious condescension to such of his friends or clients
as he distinguished amongst the throng. Mingling
amidst the gay dresses of the better orders you saw the
hardy forms of the neighbouring farmers, as they made
their way to the public granaries. Hard by the temple
you caught a view of the triumphal arch, and the long
street beyond swarming ^\^.th inhabitants ; in one of
the niches of the arch a fountain played, cheerily
sparkling in the sunbeams ; and above its cornice rose
the bronzed and equestrian statue of Caligula, strongly
contrasting the gay summer skies. Behind the stalls
of the money-changers was that buUding now called
the Pantheon ; and a crowd of the poorer Pompeians
passed through the small vestibule which admitted to
the interior with panniers under their arms, pressing

* In the Museum at Naples is a i)icture little known, Imt repre-
senting one side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing, to which
I am much indeljted in the present description. It may aflbrd a
learned consolation to my younger readers to know that the cere-
mony of hoisting (more honoured in the breach than the observance)
is of high antiquity, and seems to have been performed witli all
legitimate and public vigour in the forum of Pompeii.

232 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

on towards a platform, placed between two columns,
where such provisions as the priests had rescued from
sacrifice were exposed for sale.

At one of the public edifices appropriated to the
business of the city, workmen were employed upon the
columns, and you heard the noise of their labour every
now and then rising above the hum of the multitude :
— the columns are tin Jiui shed to this day !

All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety
the costumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations
of the crowd ; — nothing could exceed the bustle, the
gaiety, the animation, the flow and flush of life all
around. You saw there all the myriad signs of a
heated and feverish civilisation, — where pleasure and
commerce, idleness and laboiu', avarice and ambition,
mingled in one gulf their motley, rushing, yet har-
monious, streams.

Facing the stej^s of the Temple of Jupiter, with
folded arms, and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood
a man of about fifty years of age. His dress Avas
remarkably plain, — not so much from its material, as
from the absence of all those ornaments which were
worn by the Pompeians of every rank, partly from the
love of show, partly, also, because they were chiefly
Avrought into those shapes deemed most efficacious
in resisting the assaults of magic, and the influence
of the evil eye.* His forehead was high and bald ;
the few locks that remained at the back of the head
were concealed by a sort of cowl, which made a part
* See note (a) at the end.

THE LAST DAYS 0¥ POMPEII. 233

of liis cloak, to be raised or loAvered at pleasure, and
was now drawn half-way over the head, as a protec-
tion from the rays of the sun. The colour of his gar-
ments was brown, no jiopidar hue with the Pompeians;
all the usual admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed
i.arefully excluded. His belt, or girdle, contained a
small receptacle for ink, which hooked on to the girdle,
a stilus (or implement of writing), and tablets of no
ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, the cinc-
ture held no purse, which was the almost indispensable
appurtenance of the girdle, even when that purse had
tlie misfortune to be empty.

It w^as not often that the gay and egotistical Pom-
peians busied themselves with obser-\4ng the counte-
nances and actions of their iieighbours ; but there was
tliat in the lip and eye of this bystander so remarkably
Ijitter and disdainful, as he surveyed the religious pvo-
CL'Ssion sweeping up the stairs of the temple, that it
(tould not fail to arrest the notice of many.

" Who is yon cynic?" asked a merchant of his com-
})anion, a jeweller.

" It is Olinthus," replied the jeweller; "a reputed
Xazarene."

The merchant shuddered. " A dread sect ! " said
lie, in a whispered and fearfid voice. " It is said that
when they meet at nights they always commence their
ceremonies by the murder of a new-born babe : they pro-
fess a community of goods, too, — the wretches ! A com-
munity of goods ! What would become of merchants,
or jewellers either, if such notions were in fashion 1 "

234 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

"That is very true," said the jeweller; " besiLles,
they wear no jewels, — they mutter imprecations when
they see a serpent ; and at Pompeii all our ornaments
are serpentine."

" Do but observe," said a third, who was a fabricant
of bronze, " how yon !Nazarene scowls at the piety of
the sacrificial procession. He is murmuring curses on
the temple, be sure. Do you know, Celcinus, that this
fellow, passing by my shop the other day, and seeing
me employed on a statue of ]\Iinerva, told me wdth a
frown that, had it been marble, he would have broken
it ; but the bronze was too strong for him. ' Break a
goddess ! ' said I. ' A goddess ! ' answered the atheist ;
' it is a demon, — an evil spirit ! ' Then he passed on
his way cursing. Are such tilings to be borne 1 What
marvel that the earth heaved so fearfully last night,
anxious to reject the atheist from her bosom'? — An
atheist do I sayl Avorse stiU, a scorner of the Fine
Arts ! Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if such fellows
as this give the law to society ! "

" These are the incendiaries that burned Eome under
Kero," groaned the jeAveller.

While such were the friendly remarks provoked ])y
the air and faith of the Xazarene, Olinthus liimself be-
came sensible of the effect he was producing ; he turned
his eyes round, and observed the intent faces of the
accumidating throng, whispering as they gazed ; and
surveying them for a moment with an expression, first
of defiance, and afterwards of compassion, he gathered
his cloak round him and passed on, muttering audibly.

THE LAST DAYS UF POMrEIL 235

'• Deluded idolaters I — did not last niglit's convulsion
warn ye : Alas ! how will ye meet the last day 1 "

The crowd that heard these boding Avords gave them
different interpretations, according to their different
shades of ignorance and of fear ; all, however, concurred
in imagining them to convey some awful imprecation,
riiey regarded tlie Christian as the enemy of man-
kind : the epithets they lavished upon him, of which
•• Atliuist " was the most favoured and frequent, may
serve, perhaps, to warn us, believers of that same creed
now triumphant, how we indidge the persecution of
opinion Olinthus then underwent, and how we apply
to those whose notions differ from oiu- own the terms
at that day lavished on the fathers of our faith.

As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained
one of the more private places of egress from the forum,
he perceived gazing upon him a pale and earnest coun-
tenance, which he was not slow to recognise.

AYrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his
sacred robes, the young Apsecides surveyed the disciple
of that new and mysterious creed, to which at one time
he had been half a convert.

" Is he, too, an impostor 1 Does this man, so plain
and simple in life, in garb, in mien — does he too,
like Arbaces, make austerity the robe of the sen-
sualist 1 Does the veil of Vesta hide the vices of the
prostitute 1 "

Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and com-
bining with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound
experience of his kind, guessed, perhaps, by the index

236 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

of the countenance something of what passed within
the breast of the priest. He met the survey of Apte-
cides with a steady eye, and a brow of serene and open
candour.

" Peace be with thee ! " said he, sahiting Apjecides.

" Peace 1 " echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that
it went at once to the heart of the I^azarene.

" In that wish," continued Olinthus, " all good things
are combined — without virtue thou canst not have
peace. Like the rainbow. Peace rests upon the earth,
but its arch is lost in heaven ! Heaven bathes it in
hues of light — it springs up amidst tears and clouds, —
it is a reflection of the Eternal Sun,— it is an assurance
of calm — it is the sign of a great covenant between Man
and God. Such peace, 0 young man ! is the smile of
the soul ; it is an emanation from the distant orb of
inuTiortal light. Peace be with you ! "

" Alas ! " began Ap;ecides, when he caught the gaze
of the curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could
possibly be the theme of conversation between a rejiuted
Nazarene and a priest of Isis. He stopped short, and
then added in a low tone — " We cannot converse here,
I will follow thee to the banks of the river ; there is a
walk which at tlais time is usually deserted and soli-
tary."

Olinthus bowed assent. He passed through the
streets with a hasty step, but a quick and observant eye.
Every now and then he exclianged a significant glance,
a slight sign, with some passenger, whose garb usually
betokened the wearer to belong to tlie humbler classes ;

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 237

I'lir Cluistianity was in this the type of all other and
less mighty revolutions — the grain of mustard-seed. Avas
in the hearts of the lowly. Amidst the huts of poverty
and labour, the vast stream which afterwards poured
its hroad waters beside the cities and palaces of earth,
took its neglected source.

CHAPTER IL

Tlie Noonday Excursion ou the Canipaiiian Seas.

" But tell me, Glaucus," said lone, as they glided down
tlie rippling Sarnus in tlieir boat of pleasure, " how
earnest thou with Apa;cides to my rescue from that had
man ? "

" Ask Nydia yonder," answered the Athenian, point-
ing to the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from
them, leaning pensively over her lyre : — " she must
have thy thanks, not we. It seems that she came to
my house, and finding me from home, sought thy
brother in his temple ; he accompanied her to Arbaces ;
on their way they encountered me, with a company of
friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit
cheerful enough to join. jS^ydia's (piick ear detected 2ny
voice — a few words sufficed to make me the companion
( if ApcTcides ; I told not my associates why I left them
■ — could I trust thy name to their light tongues and
gossiping opinion 1 — Nydia led us to the garden gate,
l~iy which Ave afterwards bore thee — we entered, and
were about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil
house, when we heard thy cry in another direction.
Thou knowest the rest."

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 239

lone Ijluslied deeply. She then raised her eyes to
those of Glaucus, and he felt all the thanks slie coixld
not utter. " Come hither, my Xydia," said she, ten-
derly, to the Thessalian.

" Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister
and friend '1 Hast thou not already been more — my
guardian, my preserver ! "

" It is nothing," answered Xydia, coldly, and without
stirring.

" Ah ! I forgot," continued lone,^ — " I should come
to thee;" and she moved along the benches till she
reached the place where Nydia sat, and, flinging her arms
caressingly round her, covered her cheeks "svith kisses.

Xydia Avas that morning paler than her Avont, and
her countenance grew even more Avan and colourless as
she submitted to the embrace of the beautiful j^eapo-
litan. " But how caniest thou, iS''ydia," whispered
lone, " to surmise so faithfully the danger I Avas ex-
posed to 1 Didst thou knoAv aught of the Egyptian 1 "

" Yes, I kncAv of his vices."

" And how ? "

" iS'oble lone, I have been a slaA^e to the \dcious —
those Avhom I serA^ed Avere liis minions."

" And thou hast entered his house since thou kneAv-
est so Avell that private entrance 1 "

" I have played on my lyre to Arbaces," ansAvered
the Tliessalian, Avith embarrassment.

" And thou hast escaped the contagion from Avhich
thou hast saved lone !" returned the Neapolitan, in a
voice too loAv for the ear of Glaucus.

240 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" ]S"oble lone, I liave neither beauty nor station ; I
am a child, and a slave, and Mind. The despicable are
ever safe."

It was with a pained, and })roud, and indignant tone
that Xydia made this huml:)le rei)ly ; and lone felt that
she only Avounded JSTydia by pursuing the subject. She
remained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea.

" Confess that I was right, lone," said Glaucus, " in
prevailing on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in
thy chamber — confess that I was right."

" Thou wert right, Glaucus," said JN'ydia, abruptly.

" The dear child speaks for thee," returned the
Athenian.

"■ But permit me to move opposite to thee, or our
light boat will be overbalanced."

So saying, he took his seat exactly opposite to lone,
and leaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath,
and not the winds of summer, that flung fragrance over
the sea.

" Thou wert to tell me," said Glaucus, " why for so
many days thy door was closed to me."

" Oh, think of it no more ! " answered lone, quickly ;
" I gave my ear to what I now know was the malice of
slander."

" And my slanderer was the Egyptian 1 "

Zone's silence assented to the question.

" His motives are sufficiently obvious."

" Talk not of him," said lone, covering her face with
her hands, as if to shut out his very thought.

" Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 241

slow Styx," resumed Glaiicus ; " yet in that case we
should probably have heard of his death. Thy brother,
luethinks, liath felt the dark influence of his gloomy
soul. When we arrived last night at thy house, he left
liie abruptly. Will he ever vouchsafe to be my friend ? "

" He is consumed with some secret care," answered
lone, tearfully. " Would that we could lure limi from
himself ! Let us join in that tender office."

" He shall be my brother," returned the Greek. _^

'"nr^iw r;iliiil\ " -aiil Tmui', rousing herself from the
Lrl<jom into which lier thoughts of Apo?cides had plunged
her — "How cahnly the clouds seem to repose in heaven !
and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the
earth shook beneath us last night."

" It did, and more violently, they say, than it has
done since the great convidsion sixteen years ago : the
land we live in yet nurses mysterious terror ; and the
reign of Pltito, which spreads beneath our burning
fields, seems rent witli unseen commotion. Didst thou
not feel the earth Cjuake, Xydia, where thou wert seated
last night ; and was it not the fear that it occasioned
thee that made thee weep 1"

"I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like
some monstrous serpent," answered Xydia ; " but as T
saw nothing, I did not fear : I imagined the convulsion
to be a spell of the Egyptian's. They say he has power
over the elements."

" Thou art a Thessalian, my Nydia," replied Glaucus,
"and hast a national right to believe in magic."

VOL. I. Q

242 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Magic ! — who doubts it?" answered Xydia, simply :
" dost thou ] "

" Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did
indeed appal me), metliinks I was not credulous in any
other magic save that of love!" said Glaucus, in a
tremulous voice, and fixing his eyes on lone.

" Ah !" said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she
awoke mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre ;
the sound suited well the tranquillity of the Avaters and
the sunny stillness of the noon.

" Play to us, dear JSTydia," said Glaucus, — " ]ilay, and
give us one of tliine old Thessalian songs ; whether it
he of magic or not, as thou Avilt — let it, at least, he of
love ! "

"Of love !" repeated Xydia, raising her large, Avan-
dering eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them Avith
a mingled fear and pity ; you could never familiarise
yourself to their aspect : so strange did it seem that
those dark Avild orbs Avere ignorant of the day, and
either so fixed Avas their deep mysterious gaze, or so
restless and perturbed their glance, that you felt, Avhen
you encountered them, that same vague, and chilling,
and half-preternatural impression Avhicli comes over you
in the presence of the insane — of those Avho, having a
life outAvardly like your OAvn, have a life within life —
d issimilar — unsearchable — unguessed !

" Will you that I shoidd sing of loA'e ? " said she,
fixing those eyes upon Glaucus.

" Yes," replied he, looking down.

She moved a little Avay from the arm of lone, still

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 243

cast round her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed :
and, placmg her light and graceful instrument on her
knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following
<train : —

nydia's love song.

I.
" The Wind and the Beana loved the Rose,
And the Rose loved one ;
For who recks the wind where it blows ?
Or loves not the sim ?

n.
None knew whence the humble wind stole,

Poor sport of the skies —
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul.

In its mournful sighs !

III.
Oh, happy Beam I how canst thou prove

That bright love of thine ?
In thy light is the proof of thy love,

Thou hast but — to shine !

IV.

How its love can the Wind reveal ?

Unwelcome its sigh ;
Mute — mute to its Rose let it steal —

Its proof is — to die ! "

" Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl," said Glaucus ;
" thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love ;
far other inspiration doth lie Avake, Avhen he liimself
bursts and brightens upon us."

" I sing as I was taught," replied Xydia, sighing.

" Thy master was love-crossed then — try thy liand
at a gayer air. iN"ay, girl, give the instrument to me."
As Xydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and, Avith

244 THE LAST DxVY.S OF POMPEir.

that slight touch, her breast heaved — her cheek
flushed. lone and Glaucus, occupied with each other,
jierceived not tliose signs of strange and premature
emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, nourished
by imagination, dispensed with hope.

And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread
that halcyon sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen
centuries from that date, I behold it rippHng on the
same divinest shores. Clime that yet enervates witli
a soft and Circean spell — that moulds us insensibly,
mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banishing the
thought of austerer labour, the voices of wild ambition,
the contests and the roar of life ; filling us with gentle
and subduing dreams, making necessary to our nature
that which is its least earthly portion, so that the very
air inspires us with the yearning and thirst of love !
Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth and its harsh
cares behind — to enter by the Ivory gate into the Land
of dreams. The young and laughing Hours of the
PRESEXT^the Hours, those children of Saturn, which
he hungers ever to devour — seem snatched from his
grasp. The past — the future — are forgotten ; we en-
joy but the breathing time. FIowit nf tlii' world's
garden — Fountain of Delight — Italy of Italy — beau-
tiful, benign Campania ! — vain were, indeed, the
Titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another
heaven ! Here, if God meant this working- day life
for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell
for ever — asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPP:iI. 245

iiotliiug, while thy skies shine over him — while thy
seas sparkle at his feet— while thine air brought him
sweet messages from the violet and the orange — and
while the heart, resigned to — heating with — but one
emotion, could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter
(vanity of vanities !) that love can defy custom, and be
eternal 1

It was, then, in this clime, on those seas, that the
Athenian gazed iipon a face that might have suited the
nyniph, the spirit of the place : feeding his eyes on
the changeful roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond
the hapi)iness of common life, loving, and knowing
himself beloved.

In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is
something of interest even in the remoteness of the
time. We love to feel within us the bond Avhich
unites the most distant eras — men, nations, customs,
perish ; the affections are immortal ! — they are the
spnpathies which unite the ceaseless generations. The
past lives again, when we look upon its emotions — it
lives in our own ! That which was, ever is ! The
magician's gift, that revives the dead — that animates
the dust of forgotten graves, is not in the author's
skill — it is in the heart of the reader !

Still vainly seeking the eyes of lone, as, half down-
cast, half averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian,
in a low and soft voice, thus expressed the feelings
inspired by happier thoughts than those which had
coloured the song of Nydia : —

24() THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

THE SONG OF GLAUCUS.
I.
"As the bark tloatetli on o'ei- the summer-lit sea,
Floats my heart o'er the deeps of its passion for thee ;
All lost in the sjiace, without terror it glides,
For bright with thy soul is the face of the tides.
Now heaving, now hushed, is that passionate ocean,

As it catches thy smile or thy sighs ;
And the twin stars * that shine on the wanderer's devotion,
Its guide and its god— are thine eyes !

ir.
The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above.
For its being is bound to the light of thy love.
As thy faitli and thy smile are its life and its joy.
So thy frowTi or tliy change are the storms that destroy.
Ah I sweeter to sink while the sky is serene,

If time hath a change for thy heart !
If to live be to weep over what thou hast been.

Let me die while I know what thou art ! "

As the last words of the song trembled over the sea,
lone raised her looks,- — they niet those of her lover.
Happy Xydia ! — hajipy in thy affliction, that thou
couldst not see that fascinated and charmed gaze, that
said so much — that made the eye the voice of the soul
— that promised the unpossibility of change !

But, though the Thessalian could not detect that
gaze, she divined its meaning by their silence — by
their sighs. She pressed her hands tightly across her
breast, as if to keep down its bitter and jealou.'^
thoughts ; and then she hastened to speak — for that
silence was intolerable to her.

" After all, O Glaucus ! " said she, " there is nothing
very mirthful in your strain ! "

* In allusion to the Diosciu'i, or twin stars, the guardian deity
of the seamen, .

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 247

" Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up thy lyre,
pretty one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us ti)
be mii-thful."

" How strange is it," said lone, changing a conver-
sation which oppressed her while it charmed, " that for
the last several days yonder cloud has hung motion-
less over Vesuvius ! Yet not indeed motionless, for
sometimes it changes its form ; and now methinks it
looks like some vast giant, with an arm outstretched
over the city. Dost thou see the likeness — or is it
only to my fancy?"

" Fair lone ! I see it also. It is astonishingly dis-
tinct. The giant seems seated on the brow of the
mountain, the different shades of the cloud appear to
form a white robe that sweeps over its vast breast and
limbs ; it seems to gaze with a steady face upon the
city below, to point -with one hand, as thou sayest,
over its ghttering streets, and to raise the other (dost
thou note it 1) towards the higher heaven. It is like
the ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the beau-
tiful world he lost ; sorrowful for the past — yet Avith
something of menace for the future."

" Could that mountain have any connection Avith
the last night's earthquake 1 They say that ages ago,
almost in the earliest era of tradition, it gave forth
fires as ^tna still. Perhaps the flames yet lurk and
dart beneath."

" It is possible," said Glaucus, musingly.
"Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic?"
said Xydia, suddenly. " I have heard that a potent

248 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Avitch dwells amongst the scorched caverns of the
mountain, and yon cloud may be the dim shadow
of the demon she confers with."

" Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thes-
saly," said Glaucus, " and a strange mixture of sense
and all conflicting superstitions."

" A^^e are ever superstitious in the dark," replied
Nydia. " Tell me," she added, after a slight pause,
" tell me, 0 Glaucus ! do all that are beautiful re-
semble each other? They say you are beautiful, and
Tone also. Are your faces, then, the same 1 I fancy
not, yet it ought to be so ! "

" Fiincy no such grievous wrong to lone," answered
Glaucus, laughing. " But we do not, alas ! resemble
each other, as the homely and the beautiful sometimes
<lo. Tone's hair is dark, mine light ; Zone's eyes are—
what colour, lone? I cannot see, turn them to me.
Oh, are they black ? no, they are too soft. Are they
lilue? no, they are too deep: they change with every
ray of the sun — I know not their colour : but mine,
sweet !Nydia, are grey, and bright only wdien lone
shines on them ! Tone's cheek is "

" I do Jiot understand one Avord of thy description,"
interrupted Nydia, peevishly. " I comprehend only
that you do not resemble each other, and I am glad
of it."

" Why, Xydia ? " said lone.

Nydia coloured slightly. " Because," she rejilied,
coldly, " I have always imagined you under different
forms, and one likes to know one is right."

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 249

"And wliiit hast thou imagined (Uaucus to re-
semble 1 " asked lone, softly.

" Music ! " replied Nydia, looking down.

"Thou art right," thought lone.

" And what likeness hast thou ascribed to lone ? "

" I cannot tell yet," answered the blind girl ; " 1
liave not yet kno^m her long enough to lind a shape
and sign for my guesses."

"I will tell thee, then," said (Jlaucus, passionately:
" she is like the sun that warms — like the wave that
refreshes."

" The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave some-
times drowns," answered Xydia.

" Take then these roses," said Glaucus ; " let their
fragrance suggest to thee lone."

" Aliis, the roses will fade ! " said the Xeapolitan,
archly.

Thus conversing, they Avore away the hours ; th('
liivers conscious only of the brightness and smiles of
love ; the blind gii'l feeling only its darkness — its tor-
tures ; — the fierceness of jealousy and its Avoe !

And now, as they drifted on, Glaucus once more
resumed the lyre, and woke its strings with a careless
hand to a strain, so AA'ildly and gladly beautiful, that
even !N^ydia was aroused from her reverie, and uttered
a cry of admiration.

" Thou seest, my child," cried Glaucus, " tliat 1 can
yet redeem the character of love's music, and that I
was wrong in saying happiness could not be gay. Lis-
ten, Nydia ! listen, dear lone ! and hear —

250 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

THE BIRTH OF LOVE.*

I.

' Like a Star in the seas above,

Like a dream to the waves of slee]i —

Up— up— THE INCARNATE LOVE —

She rose from the charmed deep !
And over the Cyprian Isle
The skies slied their silent smile ;
And the Forest's green heart was rife
With the stir of the gushing life —
The life that had leaped to birth,
In the veins of the happy earth !
Hail ! oh, hail !
The dimmest sea-cave below thee.

The farthest sky-arch above,
In their innermost stillness know thee :

And heave with the Birth of Love !
Gale ! soft Gale !
Thou comest on thy silver winglets.

From thy home in the tender west ; t
Now fanning her golden ringlets.

Now hushed on her heaving breast.
And afar on the murmuring sand.
The seasons wait hand in hand
To welcome thee, Birth Divine,
To the earth which is henceforth thine.

ir.
Behold ! how she kneels in the shell,
Bright pearl in its floating cell !
Behold ! how the shell's rose-hues

The cheek and the breast of snow.
And the delicate limbs suff"use

Like a blush, with a liashful glow.

* Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea, taken from Pom-
peii, and now in tlie Museum of Naples.

t According to the aueient mythologists, Venus rose from the sea near
Cyprus, to which island she was wafted by the Zephyrs. The Seasons
waited to welcome her on the sea-shore.

THE LAST DAYS OF PO.VirEII. 251

Sailing on, slowly sailing

O'er the wild water ;
All hail ! as the fond light is hailing

Her daughter,

All hail !
We are thine, all thine evermore :
Not a leaf on the laughing shore.
Not a wave on the heaving sea.

Nor a single sigh

In the boundless sky,
But is vowed evermore to thee !

III.

And thou, my beloved one — thou,
As I gaze on thy soft eyes now,
Methinks from their depths I \ie\v.
The Holy Birth born anew ;
Thy lids are the gentle cell

Where the young Love blushing lies ;
See ! she breaks from the mystic shell.

She comes from thy tender eyes !
Hail ! all hail ! "
She comes, as she came from the sea,
To my soul as it looks on thee !

She comes, she comes !
She comes, as she came from the sea,
To my soul as it looks on thee !

Hail ! all hail ! ' "

CHAP TEE III.

The Congregation.

Followed by Apcecides, the JS^azarene gained the siele
ui the Sarnus ; — that river, Avhich now has shrunk into
a petty stream, then rushed gaily into the sea, covered
^\'ith countless vessels, and reflecting on its waves the
gardens, the vines, the palaces, and the temples of
Pompeii. From its more noisy and frequented l)anks,
Olinthus directed his steps to a path which ran amidst
a shady vista of trees, at the distance of a few paces
from the river. This walk Avas in the evening a
favourite resort of the Pompeians, hut during the
heat and business of the day was seldom visited, save
by some groups of playful children, some meditative
poet, or some disputativc philosophers. At the side
larthest from the river, frecpient copses of box inter-
spersed the more delicate and evanescent foliage, and
these were cut into a thousand quaint shapes, some-
times into the forms of fauns and satyrs, sometimes
into the mimicry of Egyptian pp-amids, sometimes
into the letters that compuscd the name of a popular
or eminent citizen. Thus the false taste is equally
ancient as the pure ; and the retired traders of

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 253

Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, Avere little
aware, perhaps, that in their tortured yews and sculp-
tured box, they found their models in the most polished
l^eriod of Eoman anticpiity, in the gardens of Pompeii,
and the villas of the fastidious Pliny.

This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpen-
dicularly tlrrough the checkered leaves, was entirely
deserted ; at least no other forms than those of Olin-
thus and the priest infringed upon the solitude. They
sat themselves on one of the benches, placed at
intervals between the trees, and facing the faint
breeze that came languidly from the river, whose
waves danced and sparkled before them ; — a singular
and contrasted pair; the believer in the latest — the
priest of the most ancient- — worship of the world.

" Since thou leftst me so abruptly," said Olinthus,
" hast thou been happy t has thy heart found content-
ment under these priestly robes 1 hast thou, still yearn-
ing for the voice of God, heard it whisper comfort to
thee from the oracles of Isis 1 That sigh, that averted
countenance, give me the answer my soul predicted."

" Alas ! " answered Apacides, sadly, " thou seest be-
fore thee a wretched and distracted man ! From my
cliildhood upward I have idolised the dreams of virtue !
I have envied the holiness of men who, in caves and
lonely temples, have been admitted to the companion-
ship of beings above the world ; my days have been
consumed with feverish and vague desires ; my nights
with mocking but solemn visions. Seduced by the
mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have indued these

254 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,

robes; — my nature (I confess it to thee frankly) — my
nature has revolted at what I have seen and been
doomed to share in ! Searching after truth, I have
become but the minister of falsehoods. On the even-
ing in which we last met, I Avas buoyed by hopes
created by that same impostor, whom I ought already
to have better known. I have — no matter — no matter !
suffice it, I have added perjury and sin to rashness and
to sorrow. The veil is now rent for ever from my eyes ;
I behold a villain where I obeyed a demigod ; the earth
darkens in my sight ; I am in the deepest abyss of
gloom ; I know not if there be gods above ; if we are
the things of chance ; if beyond the bounded and mel-
ancholy present there is annihilation or an hereafter —
tell me, then, thy faith ; solve me these doubts, if thou
hast indeed the power ! "

" I do not marvel," answered the ISTazarene, " that
thou hast thus erred, or that thou art thus sceptic.
Eighty years ago there was no assurance to man of God,
or of a certain and definite future beyond the grave.
New laws are declared to him wlio has ears — a heaven,
a true dlyiiipii^. is iwcalcd to liim who has eyes — heed
then, and listen."

And with all the earnestness of a man believing
ardently himself, and zealous to convert, the Xazarene
poured forth to Apa:'cides the assurances of Scriptural
promise. He spoke first of the sufferings and miracles
of Christ — he wept as he spoke : he turned next to the
glories of the Saviour's ascension- — to the clear predic-
tions of Revelation. He described that pure and un-

THE LAST DAYS OF rO.MPEII. 255

sensual heaven destined to the virtuous — those fires
and torments that were the doom of guilt.

The doubts which spring up to the mind of later
__niaaauers, in the immensity of the sacrifice of God to
man, were not such as Avould occur to an early heathen.
He had been accustomed to believe that the gods had
lived upon earth, and taken upon themselves the forms
of men; had shared in human passions, in human
labours, and in human misfortunes. What was the
travail of his own Alcni;\ina's son, whose altars now
smoked with the incense of countless cities, but a toil
for the human race? Had not the great Dorian Apollo
expiated a mystic sin by descending to the grave 1
Those who were the deities of heaven had been the
lawgivers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude had
led to worship. It seemed, therefore, to the heathen,
a doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had
been sent from heaven, that an immortal had indued
mortality, and tasted the bitterness of death. And the
end for which He thus toiled and thus suffered — how
far more glorious did it seem to Apajcides than that for
which the deities of old had visited the nether w^orld,
and passed through the gates of death ! Was it not
worthy of a God to descend to these dim valleys, in
order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark
mount beyond — to satisfy the doubts of sages — to con-
vert speculation into certainty — by example to point
out the rules of life — by revelation to solve the enigona
of the grave — and to prove that the soul did not yearn
in vain when it dreamed of an immortality 1 In this

256 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

last was the great argument of those lowly men destined
to convert the earth. As nothing is more flattering to
the pride and the hopes of man than the helief in a
future state, so nothing could he more vague and con-
fused than the notions of the heathen sages uj)on that
mystic suhject. Apa^cides had already learned that the
faith of the philosophers was not that of the herd ; that
if they secretly professed a creed in some diviner power,
it was not the creed Avhich they thought it wise to im-
part to the community. He had already learned, that
even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the peo-
ple— that the notions of the few and the many were
never united. But, in this new faith, it seemed to him
that philosopher, priest, and people, the expounders of
the religion and its folloAvers, were ahke accordant :
they did not speculate and dehate upon immortalit}',
they spoke of it as a thing certain and assured ; the
magniticence of the promise dazzled him — its consola-
tions sootlied. For the Christian faith made its early
converts among sinners ! many of its fathers and its
martj'rs were those who had felt the hitterness of vice,
and who were therefore no longer tempted by its false
aspect from the paths of an austere and uncompromis-
ing virtue. All the assurances of this healing faith
invited to rei)entance — they were peculiarly adapted to
the bruised and sore of spirit ; the verj' remorse which
Apoecides felt for his late excesses, made him incline
to one who found holiness in that remorse, and who
whispered of tlie joy in heaven over t)ne sinner that
repenteth.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 257

" Come," said the N'azarene, as he perceived the
effect he had produced — " come to the humble hall in
which we meet — a select and a chosen few; listen there
to our prayers ; note the sincerity of our repentant
tears ; mingle in our simple sacrifice — not of victims,
nor of garlands, but offered by white-robed thoughts
upon the altar of the heart. The flowers that we lay
there are imperishable — they bloom over us when we
are no more ; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave,
they spring up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight
us with an eternal odour, for they are of the soul, they
partake of its nature ; these offerings are temptations
overcome, and sins repented. Come, oh, come ! lose
not another moment ; prepare already for the great, the
awful journey, from darkness to light, from sorrow to
bliss, from corruption to immortahty ! This is the day
of the Lord the Son, a day that we have set apart for
our devotions. Though we meet usually at night, yet
some amongst us are gathered together even noAv.
"\Miat joy, what triumph, will be with us all, if we can
bring one stray lamb into the sacred fold ! "

There seemed to Apsecides, so naturally pure of heart,
something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit
of conversation which animated Olinthus — a spirit that
found its own bliss in the happmess of others — that
sought in its wide sociahty to make companions for
eternity. He was touched, softened, and subdued.
He was not in that mood which can bear to be left
alone ; curiosity, too, mingled with his purer stimulants

VOL. I. u

258 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

— he was anxious to see those rites of which so many-
dark and contradictory nunours were afloat. He paused
a moment, looked over his garb, thought of Arhaces,
shuddered with horror, lifted his eyes to the hroad
brow of the Nazarene^ intent, anxious, watchful — hut
for h is benefit, for his salvation ! He drew his cloak
around him, so as wholly to conceal his robes, and
said, " Lead on, I follow thee."

Olinthus pressed his hand joyfidly and then descend-
ing to the river-side, hailed one of the boats that plied
there constantly ; they entered it ; an awning overhead,
while it sheltered them from the sun, screened also
their persons from observation : they rapidly skimmed
the wave. From one of the boats that passed them
floated a soft music, and its prow was decorated with
flowers — it was gliding toAvards the sea.

" So," said Olinthus, sadly, " unconscious and mhth-
ful in their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into
the great ocean of storm and shipwreck ; we pass them,
silent and unnoticed, to gain the land."

Appecides, lifting his eyes, caught tlu-ough the aper-
ture in the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the
inmates of that gay bark — it was the face of lone. The
lovers were embarked on the excursion at which we
have been made present. The priest sighed, and once
more sank back upon his seat. They reached the shore
where, in the suburbs, an alley of small and mean
houses stretched towards the baidc ; they dismissed
the boat, landed, and Olinthus, preceding the priest,
threaded the labyrinth of lanes, and arrived at last at

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 259

tlie closed door of a habitation somewliat larger than
its neighbours. He knocked thrice — the door Avas
opened and closed again, as Apgecides followed liis
guide across the threshold.

They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner
chamber of moderate size, which, when the door was
closed, received its only light from a small wiiidoAY cut
over the door itself. But, halting at the threshold of
this chamber, and knocking at the door, Olinthus said,
" Peace be with you! " A voice from within returned,
"Peace with whom?" "The faithful!" answered
(3Hnthus, and the door opened ; twelve or fourteen
persons were sitting in a semicircle, silent, and seem-
ingly absorbed in thought, and opposite to a crucifix
rudely carved in wood.

They lifted up their eyes Avhen Olinthus entered,
Avithout speakmg ; the I^azarene himself, before he
accosted them, knelt suddenly down, and by his
moving lips, and his eyes fixed steadfastly on the
crucifix, Apaecides saw that he prayed inly. This rite
performed, Olinthus turned to the congregation — 'Olen
and brethren," said he, " start not to behold amongst
you a priest of Isis ; he hath sojoiu'ned with the blind,
but the Spirit hath fallen on him — he desnes to see, to
hear, and to understand."

" Let him," said one of the assembly ; and Apaecides
beheld in the speaker a man still younger than him-
self, of a countenance equally worn and pallid, of an
eye which erpially spoke of the restless and fier}' opera-
tions of a workin^r mind.

260 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Let laini," repeated a second voice ; and he who
thus spoke was in the pride of manhood ; his bronzed
skin and Asiatic features bespoke him a son of Syria —
he had been a robber in his youth.

" Let him," said a third voice ; and the priest, again
turning to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a
long grey beard, whom he recognised as a slave to the
wealthy Diomed.

"Let him," repeated simultaneously the rest — men
who, Avith two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior
ranks. In these exceptions, Apsecides noted an officer
of the guard, and an Alexandrian merchant.

" We do not," recommenced Olinthus — " we do not
bind you to secrecy; we impose upon you no oaths (as
some of our weaker brethren do) not to betray us. It
is true, indeed, that there is no absolute law against us ;
but the multitude, more savage than their rulers, thirst
for our Hves. So, my friends, when Pilate would have
hesitated, it was the people who shouted ' Christ to the
cross ! ' But we bind you not to our safety — no ! Be-
tray us to the crowd — impeach, calunuiiate, malign us
if you will : — we are above death, we should walk
cheerfidly to the den of the lion, or the rack of the
torturer — we can trample down the darkness of the
grave, and what is death to a criminal is eternity to
the Christian."

A low and api)lauding uiurmur ran through the
assembly.

" Thou comest amongst us as an examiner, maycst
thou remain a convert ! Our religion ? you behold it !

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEII. 2G1

Yon cross our sole image, yon scroll tlie mysteries of
oiu' Csre and Eleusis ! Our morality ] it is in our lives !
— sinners we all have been ; who now can accuse us of
a crime'? we have baptised ourselves from the past.
Think not that this is of us, it is of God. Approach,
Medon," beckoning to the old slave who had spoken
third for the admission of Aptecides, " thou art the sole
man amongst us who is not free. But in lieaven the
last shall be first ; so Avith us. Unfold your scroll,
read and explain."

Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture
of Medon, or the comments of the congregation. Fa-
miliar now are those doctrines, then strange and new.
Eighteen centimes have left us little to expound upon
the lore of Scriptiu-e or the life of Christ. To us, too,
there would seem little congenial in the doubts that
occurred to a heathen priest, and little learned in the
answers they received from men uneducated, rude, and
simple, possessing only the knowledge that they were
greater than they seemed.

There was one thing that greatly touched the iXeapo-
litan : when the lecture was concluded, they heard a
very gentle knock at the door ; the password was given,
and replied to ; the door opened, and two young chil-
ilren, the eldest of whom might have told its seventh
year, entered timidly ; they were the children of the
master of the house, that dark and hardy Syrian, whose
youth had been spent in piUage and bloodshed. The
eldest of the congregation (it was that old slave) opened
to them his arms ; they fled to the shelter — they crept

262 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

to his breast — and liis hard features smiled as he car-
essed them. And then tliese bold and fervent men,
nui'sed in vicissitude, beaten by the rough winds of
life — men of mailed and impervious fortitude, ready to
affront a world, prepared for torment and armed for
death — men who presented all imaginable contrast to
the weak nerves, the Hght hearts, the tender fragility
jf childhood, crowded round the infants, smoothing
their rugged brows and composing theii- bearded lips
to kindly and fostering smiles : and then the old man
opened the scroll, and he taught the infants to repeat
after him that beautiful prayer wlrich we still dedicate
to the Lord, and still teach to our children ; and then
he told them, in simple phrase, of God's love to the
young, and how not a sparrow falls but His eye sees
it. This lovely custom of infant initiation was long
cherished by the early Church, in memorj' of the words
which said, " Suffer little children to come unto me,
and forl)id them not ; " and Avas perhaps the origin of
the superstitious calumny which ascribed to the ISTaza-
renes the crime which the N^azarene, when victorious,
attributed to tlie Jew — viz., the decoying cliildren to
hideous rites, at which they were secretly immolated.

And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in
the innocence of his children a return into early life —
life ere yet it sinned : he followed the motion of theix
young lips ■with an earnest gaze ; he smiled as they
repeated, with hushed and reverent looks, the holy
words ; and when the lesson was done, and they ran,
released, and gladly to liis knee, he clasped them to

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 263

his breast, kissed tliem again and again, and tears
flowed fest down his cheek — tears, of wliich it would
have been impossible to trace the source, so mingled
they were with joy and sorrow, penitence and hope —
remorse for himself and love for them !

Something, I say, there was in this scene which
peculiarly afiected Apsecides ; and, in truth, it is diffi-
cult to conceive a ceremony more appropriate to the
religion of benevolence, more appealing to the house-
hold of everyday affections, striking a more sensitive
chord in the human Ijreast.

It was at this time that an inner door opened gently,
and a very old man entered the chamber, leaning on a
staff". At his presence the whole congregation rose ;
there was an expression of deep, affectionate respect
upon every countenance ; and Apa3cides, gazing on Ms
countenance, felt attracted towards him by an irresist-
ible sympathy. Xo man ever looked upon that face
without love ; for there had dwelt the smile of the
Deity, the incarnation of divinest love ; — and the glory
of the smile had never passed away.

" My children, God be with you ! " said the old man,
stretching his arms ; and as he spoke the infants ran
to his knee. He sat down, and they nestled fondly
to his bosom. It was beautifid to see that mingling
of the extremes of life — the rivers gushing from their
early source — the majestic stream gliding to the ocean
of eternity ! As the light of declining day seems to
mingle earth and heaven, making the outline of each
scarce \dsible, and blending the harsh mountain-tops

264 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

with the sky, even so did the smile of that benign old
age appear to hallow the aspect of those around, to
hlend together the strong distinctions of varying years,
and to diffuse over infancy and maidiood the light of
that heaven into which it must so soon A^anish and be
lost.

" Father," said Olinthus, " thou on whose form the
miracle of the Redeemer worked ; thou who wert
snatched from the grave to become the living "witness
of His mercy and His power ; behold ! a stranger in
our meeting — a new lamb gathered to the fold ! "

" Let me bless him," said the old man : the throng
gave way. Apaecides approached him as by an instinct :
he fell on his knees before liim — the old man laid his
hand on the priest's head, and blessed him, but not
aloud. As his lips moved, his eyes Avere upturned,
and tears — those tears that good men only shed in
the hope of happiness to another — flowed fast doAvn
his cheeks.

The children were on either side of the convert ; his
heart was theirs — he had become as one of them — to
enter into the kingdom of heaven.

OHAPTEPt IV.

The Stream of Love Runs ou — Whither?

Days are like years in the love of the yotuig, when no
bar, no obstacle, is between their hearts — when the
sun shines, and the course runs smooth — when their
love is prosperous and confessed. lone no longer con-
cealed from Glaucus the attachment she felt for him,
and their talk now was only of their loA^e. Over the
rapture of the present, the hopes of the future glowed
like the heaven above the gardens of spring. They
went in their trustfid thoughts far down the stream of
time ; they laid out the chart of their destiny to come ;
they suffered the light of to-day to suffuse the morrow.
In the youth of their hearts it seemed as if care, and
change, and death, were as things unknown. Perhaps
they loved each other the more, because the condition
of the world left to Glaucus no aim and no wish but
love ; because the distractions common in free states to
men's affection existed not for the Athenian ; because
his country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life ;
because ambition furnished no counterpoise to love :
and therefore, over their schemes and their projects,

266 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

love only reigned. In the iron age they imagined
themselves of the golden, doomed only to live and to
love.

To the superficial observer, who interests himself
only in characters strongly marked and broadly coloured,
both the lovers may seem of too slight and common-
l^lace a mould : in tlie delineation of characters pur-
posely subdued, the reader sometimes imagines that
there is a want of character ; perhaps, indeed, I ^Yrong
the real nature of these two lovers by not painting
more impressively their stronger individuahties. But
in dwelling so much on their bright and bird-like
existence, I am influenced almost insensibly by the
forethought of the changes that await them, and for
which they were so ill prepared. It was this very
softness and gaiety of Kfe that contrasted most strongly
the vicissitudes of theu' coming fate. For the oak
without fruit or blossom, whose hard and rugged heart
is fitted for the storm, there is less fear than for the
delicate branches of the myrtle, and the laughing clus-
ters of the vine.

They had now advanced far into August — the next
month their marriage was fixed, and the threshold of
Glaucus was already wreathed with garlands ; and
nightly, by the door of lone, he poured forth the rich
libations. He existed no longer for his gay com-
panions ; he was ever with lone. In the mornings
they beguiled the sun with music : in the evenings
they forsook the crowded haunts of the gay for excur-
sions on the water, or along the fertile and viue-clad

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 267

]tlains that lay beneath the fatal mount of Yesnvius.
The earth shook no more ; the lively Pompeians forgot
even that there had gone forth so terrible a warning of
their approaching doom. Glaucus imagined that con-
vidsion, in the vanity of his heathen religion, an
especial interposition of the gods, less in behalf of his
own safety than that of lone. He offered up the
sacrifices of gratitude at the temples of his faith ; and
even the altar of Isis was covered with his votive gar-
lands ; as to the prodigy of the animated marble, he
blushed at the effect it had produced on him. He
believed it, indeed, to have been wrought by the magic
of man ; but the residt convinced him that it betokened
not the anger of a goddess.

Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived :
stretched on the bed of suffering, he recovered slowly
from the efi'ect of the shock he had sustained — he left
the lovers umnolested — but it was only to brood over
the hour and the method of revenge.

Alike ill theii' mornings at the house of lone, and in
their evening excursions, K"ydia was usually their con-
stant, and often their sole companion. They did not
guess the secret fires which consumed her : — the abrupt
freedom with which she mingled in their conversation
— her capricious and often her peevish moods found
ready indulgence in the recollection of the ser^dce they
owed her, and their compassion for her affliction. They
felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater and more
affectionate from the very strangeness and waywardness
of her nature, her singular alternations of passion and

268 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

softness — the mixture of ignorance and genius — of deli-
cacy and rudeness — of the quick humours of the child,
and the proud calmness of the woman. Although she
refused to accept of freedom, she was constantly suf-
fered to be free ; she went where she listed : no c\irb
was put either on her words or actions ; they felt for
one so darkly fated, and so susceptible of every wound,
the same pitjang and compHant indulgence the mother
feels for a spoiled and sickly child, — dreading to impose
authority, even where they imagined it for her benefit.
She availed herself of this licence by refusing the com-
panionship of the slave whom they wished to attend
her. With the slender staff by which she guided her
steps, she went now, as in her former unprotected
state, along the popidous streets ; it was almost mira-
culous to perceive how quickly and how dexterously
she threaded every crowd, avoiding every danger, and
could find her benighted way though the most intri-
cate windings of the city. But her chief delight was
still in "\dsiting the few feet of ground which made the
garden of Glaucus ; — in tending the flowers that at least
repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the chamber
where he sat, and sought a conversation, which she
nearly always broke off abruptly — for conversation mth
Glaucus only tended to one subject — lone; and that
name from his lips inflicted agony upon her. Often
she bitterly repented the service she had rendered to
lone ; often she said inly, " If she had fallen, Glaucus
could have loved her no longer ; " and then dark and
fearful thoughts crept into her breast.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 269

She had not experienced fully the trials that were in
store for her, when she had been thus generous. She
had never before been i)resent when Glaucus and lone
were together ; she had never heard that voice so kind
to her, so much softer to another. The shock that
crushed her heart with the tidings that Glaucus loved,
had at first oidy saddened and benuml^ed; — by degrees
jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shape ; it partook of
hatred — it whispered revenge. As you see the wind
only agitate the green leaf upon the bough, Avhile the
leaf which has lain withered and seared on the groimd,
bruised and trampled upon, till the sap and life are
gone, is suddenly whirled aloft, now here — now there
— without stay and without rest ; so the love which
visits the happy and the hopeful hath but freshness on
its -vvings ! its violence is but sportive. But the heart
that hath fidlen from the green things of life, that is
Avithout hojie, that hath no summer in its fibres, is torn
and whirled by the same wind that but caresses its
brethren ; — it hath no bough to cling to — it is dashed
from path to path — till the winds fall, and it is crushed
into the mire for ever.

The friendless childhood of !N"ydia had hardened
prematurely her character ; jjerhaps the heated scenes
of profligacy through which she had passed, seemingly
unscathed, had ripened her passions, though they had
not sullied her purity. The orgies of Burbo might
only have disgusted, the banquets of the Egyptian
might only have terrified, at the moment ; but the
winds that pass unheeded over the soil leave seeds be-

270 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

liintl tliem. As darkness, too, favours the imagination,
so, perhaps, her very bHndness contributed to feed
with wild and dehrious visions the love of the unfor-
tunate girl. The voice of Glaucus had been the first
that had sounded musically to her ear ; his kindness
made a deep impression upon her mind ; when he had
left Pompeii in the former year, she had treasiu'ed up
in her heart every word he had uttered ; and when any
one told her that this friend and patron of the poor
flower-gild was the most brilliant and the most graceful
of the young revellers of Pompeii, she had felt a
pleasing pride in nursing his recollection. Even the
task wliich she imposed upon herself, of tending his
flowers, served to keep liim in her mind ; she associated
him with all that was most charming to her impres-
sions ; and when she had refused to express what image
she fancied lone to resemble, it was pai-tly, perhaps,
that whatever was bright and soft in nature she had
already combined with the thought of Glaucus. If any
of my readers ever loved at an age wliich they would
now smile to rememlier — an age in wliich fancy fore-
stalled the reason — let them say whether that love,
among all its strange and complicated delicacies, was
not, above all other and later passions, susceptible of
jealousy 1 I seek not here the cause : I know that it
is commonly the fact.

Wlien Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told
another year of life ; that year, with its sorrows, its
loneliness, its trials, had greatly developed her mind
and heart ; and Avhon the Athenian drew her uncon-

THE LAST DAYS OF PO:\irEII. 271

sciously to his Ijreast, deeming her still in soul as in
years a child — "vvhen he kissed her smooth cheek, and
wound his arm romid her tremhling frame, Nydia felt
suddenly, and as hy revelation, that those feelings
she had long and innocently cherished were of love.
Doomed to be rescued froin tyranny hyGlaucus — doomed
to take shelter under his roof — doomed to lireathe, hiit
for so brief a time, the same air — and doomed, in the
hrst rush of a thousaiid happy, grateful, delicious sen-
timents of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved
another ; to be commissioned to that other, the mes-
senger, the minister; to feel all at once that utter
nothingness which she was — which she ever must l)e,
but which, till then, her young mind had not taught
her, — that utter nothingness to him who was all to
her; — what wonder that, in her wild and passionate soul,
all the elements jarred discordant ; that if love reigned
over the whole, it was not the love which is born of
the more sacred and soft emotions? Sometimes she
dreaded only lest Glaucus should discover her secret ;
sometimes she felt indignant that it was not suspected ;
it was a sign of contempt — could he imagine that she
l)resumed so far? Her feelings to lone ebbed and
flowed vnih. every hour ; now she loved her because lie
did; now she hated her for the same cause. There were
moments when she could have murdered her uncon-
scious mistress ; moments when she could have laid
down life for her. These fierce and tremulous alter-
nations of passion were too severe to be borne long,
}{er health gave Avay, though she felt it not — her cheek

272 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

paled — lier step grew feebler — tears came to her eyes
more often, and relieved her less.

One morning, when she repaired to her usual task
in the garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus un-
der the columns of the peristyle, with a merchant of
the town ; he was selecting jewels for his destined
bride. He had already fitted up her apartment ; the
jewels he bought that day were placed also within it —
they were never fated to grace the fair form of lone ;
they may be seen at this day among the dismterred
treasures of Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at
Naples.*

" Come hither, Nydia ; put down thy vase, and
come hither. Thou must take this chain from me —
stay — there, I have put it on— There, Servilius, does
it not become her 1 "

" Wonderfully ! " answered the jeweller ; for jewel-
lers were well-bred and flattering men, even at that
day. " But when these ear-rings glitter in the ears of
the noble lone, then, by Bacchus ! you will see whether
my art adds anything to beauty."

" lone ! " repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknow-
ledged by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus.

" Yes," replied the Athenian, carelessly toying witli
the gems : "I am choosing a present for lone, but
there are none worthy of her."

He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of
Nydia ; she tore the chain violently from her neck, and
dashed it on the ground.
* Several bracelets, chains, and jewels, were found in the house.

THE LAST DAYS UF POMrEII. 273

" How is this ] What, Xydia, dost thou not like
the bauble 1 art thou otfended ] "

" You treat me ever as a slave and as a child," replied
the Thessalian, with a breast heaving with ill-su})-
pressed sobs, and she turned hastily away to the oppo-
site corner of the garden.

Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe ; he
was offended ; he continued to exandne the jewels and
to comment on their fashion — to object to this and to
praise that, and finally to be talked by the merchant
into buying all ; the safest plan for a lover, and a plan
that any one ^vill do right to adopt, — provided always
that he can obtain an lone !

^\Tien he had completed his purchase and dismissed
the jeweller, he retired into his chamber, dressed,
mounted his chariot, and went to lone. He thought
no more of the blind girl, or her offence ; he had for-
gotten both the one and the other.

He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Xeapoli-
tan, repaired thence to the baths, supped (if, as we
have said before, we can justly so translate the three
o'clock ccena of the Eomans) alone, and abroad, for
Pompeii had its restaurateurs : — and, returning home
to change his dress ere he again repaired to the house
of lone, he passed the peristyle, but with the absorbed
reverie and absent eyes of a man in love, and did not
note the form of the poor blind girl, bending exactly in
the same place where he had left her. But though he
saw her not, her ear recognised at once the sound of his
VOL. I. s

274 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

step. She had been counting the moments to his re-
turn. He had scarcely entered his favourite chamber,
A\diich opened on the peristyle, and seated himself
musingly on his couch, when he felt his robe timor-
ously touched, and turning, he beheld iSTydia kneeling
before him, and holding i;p to him a handful of flowers
— a gentle and appropriate peace-offering ; — her eyes,
darkly upheld to his own, streamed with tears.

" I have offended thee," said she, sobbing, " and for
the first time. I woidd die rather than cause thee a
moment's pain — say that thou wilt forgive me. See !
I have taken up the chain ; I have put it on ; I will
never part from it — it is thy gift."

" My dear Nydia, " returned Glaucus, and raising her,
he kissed her forehead, " think of it no more ! But
why, my child, wert thou so suddenly angry 1 I coidd
not divine the cause."

" Do not ask ! " said she, colouring "violently. " I
am a thing full of faults and humours ; you know I am
but a child — you say so often : is it from a child that
you can expect a reason for every folly 1 "

" But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more ;
and if you Avould have us treat you as a woman, you
must learn to govern these singidar impulses and gales
of passion. Think not I chide : no, it is for your hap-
piness only I speak."

"It is true, " said Nydia, " I must learn to govern
myself. I must hide, I must suppress, my heart. This
is a woman's task and duty ; methinks her virtue is
hypocrisy."

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 275

" Self-control is not deceit, my Xydia," returned the
Athenian ; " and that is the virtue necessary alike to
man and to woman ; it is the true senatorial toga, the
badge of the dignity it covers."

" Self-control ! self-control ! "Well, Avell, -what you
say is right ! "When I listen to you, Glaucus, my
wildest thoughts grow calm and sweet, and a delicious
serenity falls over me. Advise, ah I guide me ever, my
preserver ! "

" Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Xydia,
when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings."

" Ah ! that will be never," sighed Xydia, wiping
away her teai-s.

" Say not so : the fii'st effort is the only difficidt
one."

" I have made many first efforts," answered Xydia,
innocently. " But you, my Mentor, do you find it so
easy to control yourself? Can you conceal, can you
even regulate, your love for lone 1 "

" Love ! dear Xydia : ah ! that is quite another
matter," answered the young preceptor.

" I thought so !" returned Xydia, with a melancholy
smile. " Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers 1 Do
with them as thou wilt — thou canst give them to lone,"
added she, with a little hesitation.

"Xay, Xydia," answered Glaucus, kindly, divining
something of jealousy in her language, though he ima-
gined it only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible
child ; "I will not give thy pretty flowers to any one.
Sit here and weave them into a garland ; I will wear it

276 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

this night : it is the first those delicate fingers have
woven for me."

The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaiicus.
She drew from her girdle a hall of the many-coloured
threads, or rather slender ribbons, used in the weaving
of garlands, and which (for it was her professional
occupation) she carried constantly with her, and began
quickly and gracefully to commence her task. Upon
her young cheeks the tears were already dried, a faint
but happy smile played round her lips ; — childlike,
indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the present
hour : she was reconciled to Glaucus : he had forgiven
her — she was beside him — he played caressingly with
her silken hair — his breath fanned her cheek, — lone,
the cruel lone, was not by — none other demanded,
divided, his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful ;
it was one of the few moments in her brief and trouljled
life that it was sweet to treasure, to recall. As the
butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a little
while in the sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and
the frost conies on, which shall blast it before the eve,
— she rested beneath a beam, which, by contrast with
the wonted skies, was not chilling ; and the instinct
which should have warned her of its briefness, bade her
only gladden in its smile.

" Thou hast beautifid locks," said Glaucus. " They
were once, I ween well, a mother's delight."

Nydia sighed ; it would seem that she had not been
liorn a slave ; but she ever shunned the mention of her
parentage, and, whether obscure or iioble, certain it is

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 277

that her birth was never known by her benefactors, nor
by any one in those distant shores, even to the last.
The child of sorrow and of mystery, she came and went
as some bird that enters our chamber for a moment ;
Ave see it flutter for a while before us, we knew not
Avhence it flew or to Avhat region it escapes,

Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without an-
swering the remark, said —

" But I do weave too many roses in my AATreath,
Glaucus ^ They tell me it is thy favourite flower."

" And ever favoiu'ed, my Nydia, be it by those who
have the soul of poetry : it is the flower of love, of
festivals ; it is also the flower we dedicate to silence
and to death ; it blooms on our brows in life, while life
be worth the having ; it is scattered above our sepulchre
when Ave are no more."

" Ah ! AA^ould," said Nydia, " instead of this perish-
able Avreath, that I could take thy web from the hand
of the Fates, and insert the roses there ! "

" Pretty one ! thy Avish is worthy of a voice so attuned
to song ; it is uttered in the spirit of song ; and, wliat-
CA'er my doom, I thank thee."

" A^HiateA'er thy doom ! is it not already destined to
all things bright and fair? My Avish Avas vain. The
Fates Avill be as tender to thee as I should."

" It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love !
AYhile youth lasts, I may forget my country for a Avhile.
Ihit Avhat Athenian, in his graver manhood, can think
of Athens as she Avas, and be contented that he is happy,
Avhile t>]ie is fallen? — fallen, and for ever !"

278 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" And why for ever?"

"As ashes cannot be rekindled — as love once dead
never can revive, so freedom dei^arted from a people is
never regained. But talk we not of these matters un-
suited to thee."

" To me, oh ! thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for
Greece ; my cradle was rocked at the feet of Olympus ;
the gods have left the mountain, but their traces may
be seen — seen in the hearts of their Avorshippers, seen
in the beauty of their clime : they tell me it is beautiful,
and / have felt its airs, to which even these are harsh
— its sun, to which these skies are chill. Oh ! talk to
me of Greece ! Poor fool that I am, I can comprehend
thee ! and methinks, had I yet lingered on those shores,
had I been a Grecian maid Avhose happy fate it was to
love and to be loved, I myself coiild have armed my
lover for another Marathon, a new Plati^a. Yes, the
hand that now Aveaves the roses should have AvoA^en
thee the olive croAvn !"

" If such a day could come !" said Glaucus, catching
the enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half rising.
— "But no ! the sun has set, and the night only bids
us be forgetful, — and in forgetfulness be gay : — AveaA^e
still the roses !"

But it Avas Avith a melancholy tone of forced gaiety
that the Athenian uttered the last words : and, sinking
into a gloomy rcA^erie, he Avas only aAvakened from it, a
few minutes afterwards, by the A'oice of jSTj'dia, as she
.sang in a low tone the following Avords Avhich he had
once tauj^ht her: —

THE LAST KAYS OF POMPEII. 279

THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE.

Who will assume the bays

That the hero wore ?
Wreaths on the Tomb of Days

Gone everiuore !
Who shall disturb the brave,
Or one leaf on their holy grave ?
The laurel is vowed to them,
Leave the bay on its sacred stem !

But this, the rose, the fading rose.
Alike for slave and freeman grows !

If Memory sit beside the dead,

With tombs her only trea.sure ;
If Hope is lost and Freedom fled.

The more excuse for Pleasure.
Come weave the wreath, the roses weave,

Tlie rose at least is ours ;
To feeble hearts our fathers leave.

In pitying scorn, the flowers !

On the summit, worn and hoary,
Of Phyle's solemn hill.
The tramp of the brave is still !
And still in the saddening Mart,
The pulse of that mighty heart,

Whose very blood was glory !
Glaucopis forsakes her own,

The angry gods forget us ;
But yet, the blue streams along.
Walk the feet of the silver Song ;
And the night-bird wakes the moon ;
And the bees in the blushing noon

Haunt the heart of the old Hymettus !
We are fallen, but not forlorn.

If something is left to cherish.
As Love was earliest born
So love is the last to perish.

280 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Wreathe then the roses, wreathe,

The Beautiful still is ours ;
While tlie stream shall flow, and the sky shall glow,

The Beautiful still is ours !
Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright,
In the lap of day or the arms of night,
Wliispers our soul of Greece — of Greece,
And hushes our care with a voice of peace.

Wreathe then the roses, ^^Teathe !

They tell me of earlier hours ;
And I hear the heart of my country breathe

From the lips of the Stranger's flowers.

CHAPTER V.

Nydia encounters Julia — Inten-iew of the Heathen Sister and
Converted Brother — An Athenian's notion of Christianity.

" What happiness to lone ! what bliss to be ever by
tlie side of Glaucus, to hear liis voice ! — and she, too,
can see him ! "

Such Avas the soliloquy of the blind girl, as she
walked alone and at twilight to the house of her new
mistress, whither Glaucus had already preceded her.
Suddenly she was interrupted in her fond thoughts by
a female voice.

•' Blind flower-girl, wliither goest thou 1 There is
no pannier under thine arm ; hast thou sold all thy
Howers ? "

The person thus accosting ]S^ydia was a lady of a
handsome but a bold and unmaidenly countenance : it
was Julia, the daughter of Diomed. Her veil was half
raised as she spoke ; she Avas accompanied by Diomed
himself, and by a slave carrying a lantern before them
— the merchant and his daughter were returning home
from a supper at one of their neighbour's.

"Dost thou not remember my voice?" continued
Julia. "I am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy."

282 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" All ! forgive me ; yes, I recall the tones of your
voice. No, noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell."

" I heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful
Greek, Glaucus ; is that true, pretty slave 1 " asked Julia.
" I serve the IS'eapolitan, lone," replied Nydia,
evasively.

"Ah! and it is true, then "

" Come, come ! " interrupted Diomed, with his cloak
up to his mouth ; " the night grows cold ; I cannot
stay here while you prate to that blind girl : come, let
her follow you home, if you wish to speak to her."

"Do, child," said Julia, with the air of one not
accustomed to be refused ; "I have much to ask of
thee : come."

" I cannot this night, it grows late," answered Nydia.
" I must be at home ; I am not free, noble Jidia."

" What ! the meek lone will chide thee 1 — Ay, I
doubt not she is a second Thalestris. But come, then,
to-morrow ; do — remember I have been thy friend of
old."

"I "\^ill obey thy wishes," answered Nj^dia; and
Diomed again impatiently summoned his daughter :
she was obliged to proceed, -with, the main question
she had desired to put to ISTydia, unasked.

Meanwhile we return to lone. The interval of
time that had elapsed that day between the first and
second visit of Glaucus had not been too gaily spent :
she had received a visit from her brother. Since the
night he had assisted in saving her from the Egyptian,
she had not before seen liim.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 283

Occupied with liis o-svn tlioiights — thoughts of so
serious and intense a nature — the young priest had
thought little of his sister; in truth, men perhaps of
that fervent order of mind which is ever aspiring
above earth, are hut little prone to the eartldier aflec-
tions ; and it had heen long since Aptecides had sought
those soft and friendly interchanges of thought, those
sweet confidences, which in his earlier youth had
bound him to lone, and which are so natural to that
endearing connection which existed between them.

lone, however, had not ceased to regret his estrange-
ment : she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing
duties of his severe fraternity. And often, amidst all
her bright hopes, and her new attachment to her be-
trothed— often, when she thought of her brother's
brow prematurely furrowed, his unsmiling lip, and
bended frame, she sighed to think that the service of
the gods could throw so deep a shadow over that earth
which the gods created.

But this day, when he visited her, there was a
strange calmness on his features, a more qiuet and self-
possessed expression in his sunken eyes, than she had
marked for years. This apparent improvement was
but momentary — it was a false cahn, which the least
breeze could ruffle.

" May the gods bless thee, my brother ! " said she,
embracing him.

" The gods ! Speak not thus vaguely ; perchance
there is but one God ! "

" My brother ! "

284 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

"What if the sublime faith of the I^azarene be
true? What if God be a monarch- — One — Invis-
ible— Alone? What if these numerous, countless
deities, whose altars fill the earth, be but e^dl demons,
seeking to wean us from the true creed? Tliis may
be the case, lone ! "

"Alas ! can Ave believe it? or if we believed, would
it not be a melancholy faith ? " answered the I^eapoli-
tan, " What ! all tliis beautiful world made only
human ! — the mountain disenchanted of its Oread —
the waters of their Nymph — that beautiful prodigality
of faith, which makes everything divine, consecrating
the meanest flowers, bearing celestial whispers in the
faintest breeze — wouldst thou deny this, and make the
earth mere dust and clay ? No, Apsecides ; all that is
brightest in our hearts is that very credulity which
peoples the universe with gods."

lone ausAvered as a believer in the poesy of the old
mythology would answer. We may judge by that
reply how obstinate and hard the contest which Chris-
tianity had to endure among the heathens. The
Graceful Superstition was never silent ; every, the
most household, action of their lives was entwined
with it,— it was a portion of life itself, as the flowers
are a part of the thyrsus. At every incident they re-
curred to a god, every cup of wine Avas prefaced by a
libation : the A^ery garlands on their thi'esholds were
dedicated to some divinity ; their ancestors themselves,
made holy, presided as Lares OA'er their hearth and halL
So abundant Avas belief Avith them, that in their OAvn

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 285

climes, at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly
been outrooted : it changes but its objects of worship ;
it appeals to innumerable saints where once it resorted
to di\T.nities ; and it pours its crowds, in listening
reverence, to oracles at the shrines of St Januarius or
St Stephen, instead of to those of Isis or Apollo.

But these superstitions were not to the early Chris-
tians the object of contempt so much as of horror.
They did not believe, with the quiet scepticism of the
heathen philosopher, that the gods were inventions of
the priests ; nor even, with the vulgar, that, according
to the dim light of history, they had been mortals like
themselves. They imagined the heathen di\dnities to
be evil spirits — they transplanted to Italy and to Greece
the gloomy demons of India and the East ; and in
Jupiter or in Mars they shuddered at the representative
of Moloch or of Satan. *

Apa^cides had not yet adopted formally the Christian
faith, but he was already on the brink of it. He al-
ready participated the doctrines of Olinthus— he already
imagined that the lively imaginations of the heathen
were the suggestions of the arch-enemy of mankind.
The innocent and natund answer of lone made him

* In Pompeii, a rough sketch of Phito delineates that fearful
deity in the shajie we at present ascribe to the devil, and decorates
him with the paraphernalia of horns and a tail. But, in all proba-
bility, it was from the mysterious Pan, the haunter of solitary
places, the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking terrors, that we took
the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the fiend ; it corre-
sponds exactly to the cloven-footed Satan. And in the lewd and
profligate rites of Pan, Christians might well imagine they traced
the deceptions of the devil.

286 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

shudder. He hastened to reply vehemently, and yet
so confusedly, that lone feared for his reason more
than she dreaded his violence.

" Ah, my brother i " said she, " these hard duties of
thine have shattered thy very sense. Come to me,
Aptecides, my brother, my own brother ; give me thy
hand, let me Avipe the dew from thy brow ; — cliide me
not now, I understand thee not ; tliiidc only that lone
coidd not offend thee ! "

"lone," said Apa^cides, drawing her towards him,
and regarding her tenderly, " can I think that this
beautiful form, this kind heart, may be destined to an
eternity of torment 1 "

" Du meliora ! the gods forbid ! " said lone, in the
customary form of words by which her contem2:)oraries
thought an omen might be averted.

The words, and still more the superstition they
implied, wounded the ear of Apaecides. He rose, mut-
tering to himself, turned from the chamber ; then, stop-
ping half way, gazed wistfidly on lone, and extended
his arms.

lone flew to them in joy ; he kissed her earnestly,
and then he said —

'* Farewell, my sister ! when we next meet, thou
mayest be to me as notliing ; take thou, then, this em-
brace— full yet of all the tender reminiscences of child-
hood, when faith and hope, creeds, customs, interests,
objects, were the same to us. Now, the tie is to be
Ijroken ! "

With these strange words he left the house.

THE LAST DAYS OF TOMPEIL 287

The great and severest trial of the j)rimitive Chris-
tians was indeed this ; their conversion separated
them from their dearest honds. They could not
associate with beings whose commonest actions, whose
commonest forms of speech, were impregnated with
idolatry. They shuddered at the blessing of love ; to
their ears it was uttered in a demon's name. This,
their misfortune, was their strength ; if it divided
them from the rest of the world, it was to unite them
proportionally to each other. They were men of iron
who "wrought forth the Word of God, and verily the
bonds that bound them were of iron also !

Glaucus found lone in tears ; he had already assumed
the sweet privilege to console. He drew from her a
recital of her interview with her brother; but in her
confused account of language, itself so confused to one
not prepared for it, he was equally at a loss with lone
to conceive the intentions or the meaning of Apaecides.

" Hast thou ever heard much," asked she, " of this
new sect of the Nazarenes, of which my brother
spoke ] "

" I have often heard enough of the votaries," re-
tiu'ned Glaucus, " but of their exact tenets know I
naught, save that in their doctrine there seemeth some-
thing preternaturally chilling and morose. They live
apart from their kind ; they affect to be shocked even
at our simple uses of garlands ; they have no sym-
pathies with the cheerful amusements of life ; they
utter awful threats of the coming destruction of the
world : they appear, in one word, to have brought

288 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

their unsmiling and gloomy creed out of the cave of
Trophonius. Yet," continued Glaucus, after a slight
pause, " they have not wanted men of great power and
genius, nor converts, even among the Areopagites of
Athens. Well do I remember to have heard my
father speak of one strange guest at Athens, many
years ago ; methinks his name was Paul. My father
was amongst a mighty crowd that gathered on one of
our immemorial liills to hear this sage of the East
expound : through the wide throng there rang not a
single murmur !— the jest and the roar, with which
our native orators are received, were hushed for him ;
— and when on the loftiest summit of that hill, raised
above the breathless crowd below, stood this mysteri-
ous visitor, his mien and his countenance awed every
lieart, even before a sound left his lips. He was a
man, I have heard my father say, of no tall stature,
but of noble and impressive mien ; his robes were dark
and ample; the declining sun, for it was evening,
shone aslant upon his form as it rose aloft, motionless
and commanding ; his countenance was much worn
and marked, as of one who had braved alike misfor-
tune and the sternest vicissitude of many climes ; but
his eyes were bright with an almost iineartHy fire ;
and when he raised his arm to speak, it was with the
majesty of a man into whom the Spirit of a God hath
rushed !

" ' Men of Athens ! ' he is reported to have said, ' I
find amongst ye an altar with this inscription — To thk
Unknown God. Ye worship in ignorance the same

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 289

Deity I serve. To you unknown till now, to you be it
now revealed.'

" Then declared that solemn man how this great
Maker of all things, who had appointed unto man his
several tribes and his various homes — the Lord of earth
and the universal heaven — dwelt not in temples made
^\\t\\ hands; that His presence, His spirit, were in the
air we breathed : — our life and our being were with
Him. ' Think you,' he cried, ' that the Invisible is like
your statues of gold and marble 1 Think you that He
needeth sacrifice from you : He who made heaven and
earth ? ' Tlien spake he of fearful and coming times, of
the end of the world, of a second rising of the dead,
whereof an assurance had been given to man in the
resurrection of the mighty Being whose religion he
came to preach.

" When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went

forth, and the philosophers that Avere mingled Avith the

people nnittered their sage contempt ; there might

you have seen the chilling frown of the Stoic, and the

Cynic's sneer ; * — and the Epicurean, Avho belicA'eth

not even in our own Elysium, muttered a pleasant jest,

and swept laughing through the croAvd : but the deep

heart of the people was touched and tlmlled ; and they

trembled, though they knew not why, for verily the

stranger had the voice and majesty of a man to Avhom

* " The haughty Cynic scowled his grovelling hate,
And the soft Garden's rose-encircled child
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled."

Pkaed : Prize Poem, "Athens."

VOL. I. T

290 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

' The Unkno^vn God ' had committed the preaching of
His faith."

lone listened Avith rapt attention, and the serious
and earnest manner of the narrator betrayed the im-
pression that he himself had received from one who
had been amongst the audience that on the hill of the
heathen Mars had heard the first tidings of the word
of Christ !

CHAPTER VI.

The Porter— tlie Girl— and the Gladiator.

The door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon,
the old slave, sat at the hottona of the steps by which
you ascended to the mansion. That luxurious mansion
of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen just
without the gates of the city, at the commencement of
the Street of Tombs ; it was a gay neighbourhood, de-
spite the dead. On the opposite side, but at some
yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at
which those brought by business or by pleasiu'e to
Pompeii often stopped to refresh themselves. In the
space before the entrance of the inn now stood wag-
gons, and carts, and chariots, some just arrived, some
just quitting, in all the bustle of an animated and
popular resort of public entertainment. Before the
door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small
circular table, were talking over their morning cups,
on the affairs of their calling. On the side of the door
itself was painted gaily and fresldy the eternal sign of
the chequers.* By the roof of the inn stretched a

* There is another inn within the walls similarly adorned.

292 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

terrace, on which some females, wives of the farmers
above mentioned, were, some seated, some leaning over
the railing, and conversing with their friends below.
In a deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered
seat, in which some two or tlu-ee poorer travellers were
resting themselves, and shaking the dust from their
garments. On the other side stretched a wide space,
originally the burial-ground of a more ancient race
than the present denizens of Pompeii, and now con-
verted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning of
the dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay villa,
half hid by trees. The tombs themselves, with their
graceful and varied shapes, the flowers and the foliage
that surrounded them, made no melancholy featm^e in
the prospect. Hard by the gate of the city, in a small
niche, stood the still form of the well-disciplined Eo-
man sentry, the sun shining brightly on his poHshed
crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate
itself was divided into three arches, the centre one for
vehicles, the others for the foot-passengers ; and on
either side rose the massive walls which girt the city,
composed, patched, repaired at a thousand different
epochs, a(X',(irtling as war, time, or the earthcpiake, had
shattered that vain protection. At frequent intervals
rose square towers, whose summits broke in pictur-
esque rudeness the regular line of the wall, and con-
trasted well with the modern buildings gleaming
whitely by.

The curving road, which in that direction leads from
Pompeii to llerculuneum, wound out of sight amidst

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 293

hanging vines, above wliicli frowned the sullen majesty
of Vesuvius.

" Hast thou heard the news, old Medon 1 " said a
young woman, with a pitcher in her hand, as she
paused by Diomed's door to gossip a moment with the
slave, ere she repaired to the neighbouring inn to iill
the vessel, and coquet with the travellers.

" The news ! what news 1 " said the slave, raising
his eyes moodily from the ground.

" Why, there passed tlu'ough tire gate this morning,
no doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visitor to
Pompeii ! "

" Ay," said the slave, indifferently.

" Yes, a present from tlie noble Pomponianus."

" A present ! I thought thou saidst a visitor 1 "

" It is both visitor and present. Know, 0 dull and
stupid ! that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our
approaching games in the amphitheatre. Hear you
that, Medon 1 Oh, what pleasure ! I declare I shall
not sleep a wink till I see it ; they say it has such a
roar ! "

" Poor fool ! " said Medon, sadly and cynically.

" Fool me no fool, old churl ! It is a pretty thing,
a tiger, especially if we coidd but find somebody for
him to eat. We have now a lion and a tiger : only
consider that, Medon ! and for want of two good
criminals, perhaps we shall be forced to see them eat
each other. By the by, your son is a gladiator, a
handsome man, and a strong, — can you not persuade
him to fight the tiger'? Do now, you would oblige

294 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

me mightily ; nay, you would be a benefactor to the
whole town."

" Vah ! vah ! " said the slave, with great asperity ;
" think of thine own danger ere thou thus pratest of
my i^oor boy's death."

"My own danger!" said the girl, frightened and
looking hastily round — "Avert the omen! let thy
words fall on thine own head ! " And the girl, as
she spoke, touched a talisman suspended round her
neck. "'Thine own danger?' what danger tlireatens
me ? "

" Had the earthquake but a few nights since no
warning 1 " said Medon. " Has it not a voice 1 Did it
not say to us all, ' Prepare for death ; the end of all
things is at hand 1 ' "

" Bah, stuff ! " said the young woman, settling the
folds of her tunic. " Now thou talkest as they say the
Xazarenes talk — raethinks thou art one of them. \Yell,
I can prate with thee, grey croaker, no more : thou
growest worse and worse — Vale ! O Hercules, send
us a man for the lion— and another for the tiger !

"Ho ! ho ! for the merry, merry show.
With a forest of faces in every row !
Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmoena,
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena ;
Talk while you may — you will hold your breath
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.
Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go !
Ho ! ho ! for the merry, merry show ! "

Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine
ditty, and holding up her tunic from the dusty road,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 295

the young woman stepped liglitly across to the crowded
hostelry.

" My 2)oor son ! " said the slave, half aloud, " is it
for things like this thou art to be butchered ] Oh !
faith of Christ, I could worshiji thee in all sincerity,
Avere it but for the horror which thou inspirest for
these bloody lists."

The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast.
He remained silent and absorbed, but every now and
then with the corner of his sleeve he wiped his eyes.
His heart was with his son ; he did not see the figure
that now approached from the gate with a quick step,
and a somewhat fierce and reckless gait and carriage.
He did not lift his eyes till the figure paused oppo-
site the place where he sat, and with a soft voice ad-
dressed him by the name of —

" Father ! "

" My boy ! my Lydon ! is it indeed thou 1 " said
the old man, joyfully. " Ah, thou wert present to my
thoughts ! "

" I am glad to hear it, my father," said the gladiator,
respectfully touching the knees and beard of the slave ;
" and soon may I be always present with thee, not in
thought oidy."

" Yes, my son — but not in this world," replied the
slave, mournfully.

" Talk not thus, 0 my sire ! look clieerfully, for I
feel so — I am sui'e that I shall Avin the day ; and then,
the gold I gain buys the freedom. 0 my father ! it
was but a few days since that I was taunted, by one,

296 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

too, whom I "vvould glacUy have undeceived, for he is
more generous than the rest of his equals. He is not
Eoman — he is of Athens — by him I was taunted with
the lust of gain — when I demanded what sum was the
prize of victory. Alas ! he little knew the soul of
Lydon ! "

" My boy ! my boy ! " said the old slave, as, slowly
ascending the steps, he conducted his son to his own
little chamber, communicating with the entrance-hall
(which in this villa was the peristyle, not the atrium) :
— you may see it now ; it is the third door to the right
on entering. (The first door conducts to the stair-
case ; the second is but a false recess, in which there
stood a statue of bronze.) " Generous, affectionate,
pious as are thy motives," said Medon, when they were
thus secured from observation, " thy deed itself is guilt:
thou art to risk thy blood for thy father's freedom —
that might be forgiven ; but the prize of victory is the
blood of another. Oh, that is a deadly sin ; no object
can purify it. Forbear ! forbear ! rather would I be a
slave for ever than purchase liberty on such terms ! "

" Hush, my father," replied Lydon, somewhat impa-
tiently ; " thou hast picked up in this new creed of
thine, of which I pray thee not to speak to me, for the
gods that gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I
understand not one word of what thou often preachest
to me, — thou hast picked up, I say, in this new creed,
some singular fantasies of right and wrong. Pardon
me, if I offend thee : but reflect ! Against Avhom shall
I contend ? Oh ! couldst thou know those ■\\Tetches

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 297

with whom, for thy sake, I assort, thou wouldst think
I purified earth by removing one of them. Beasts,
whose Yevj lips drop blood ; things, all savage, un-
principled in their very courage ; ferocious, heartless,
senseless ; no tie of life can bind them : they know
not fear, it is true— but neither know they gratitude,
nor charity, nor love ; they are made but for their own
career, to slaughter "\Aathout pity, to die without dread !
Can thy gods, whosoever they be, look with wrath on
a conflict wdth such as these, and in such a cause 1
Oh, my father, wherever the powers above gaze down
on earth, they behold no duty so sacred, so sanctifying,
as the sacrifice ofiered to an aged parent by the piety
of a grateful son ! "

The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights
of knowledge, and only late a convert to the Christian
faith, knew not with what arguments to enlighten an
ignorance at once so dark, and yet so beautiful in its
error. His first impulse was to throw himself on his
son's breast — his next to start away — to wring his
hands ; and in the attempt to rej^rove, his broken
voice lost itself in weeping.

" And if," resumed Lydon, — " if thy Deity (nie-
thinks thou wilt own but one 1) be indeed that bene-
volent and pitying Power Avhich thou assertest Him to
be, He will know also that thy very faith in Him
first confirmed me in that determination thou blamest."

" How ! what mean you 1 " said the slave.

" AATiy, thou knowest that I, sold in my cliildhood
as a slave, was set free at Eome by the will of my

298 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

master, whom I had been fortunate enough to please.
I hastened to Pompeii to see thee — I found thee
already aged and infirm, under the yoke of a capricious
and pampered lord — thou hadst lately adopted this
new faith, and its adoption made thy slavery doubly
painful to thee ; it took away all the softening charm
of custom, which reconciles us so often to the worst.
Didst thou not complain to me, that thou wert com-
pelled to offices that were not odious to thee as a slave,
but guilty as a Nazarenel Didst thou not tell me
that thy soul shook with remorse when thou wert
compelled to place even a crumb of cake before the
Lares that watch over yon inipluvium 1 that thy soul
was torn by a perpetual struggle 1 Didst thou not tell
me, that even by pouring wine before the threshold,
and calling on the name of some Grecian deity, thou
didst fear thou wert incurring penalties worse than
those of Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more terrible
than those of the Tartarian fields 1 Didst thou not tell
me this 1 I wondered, I coidd not comprehend : nor,
by Hercules ! can I now : but I was thy son, and my
sole task was to compassionate and relieve. Could I
hear thy groans, coidd I witness thy mysterious hor-
rors, thy constant anguish, and remain inactive 1 No !
by the immortal gods ! the thought struck me like
light from Olympus ! I had no money, but I had
strength and youth — these were thy gifts — I could sell
these in my turn for thee ! I learned the amount of
thy ransom — I learned that the usual prize of a vic-
torious gladiator would doubly pay it. I became a

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 299

gladiator — I linked myself with those accursed men,
scorning, loathing, while I joined — I acquired their
skill — blessed be the lesson ! — it shall teach me to free
my father ! "

" Oh, that thou coiddst hear Olinthus ! " sighed the
old man, more and more aftected by the vii'tue of his
son, but not less strongly con^inced of the criminality
of his j3iirpose.

"I will hear the whole world talk, if thou Avilt,"
answered the gladiator, gaily; "but not till thou art
a slave no more. Beneath thy own roof, my father,
thou shalt puzzle this dull brain all day long, ay, and
all night too, if it give thee pleasure. Oh, such a spot
as I have chalked out for thee ! — it is one of the nine
hundred and ninety-nine shops of old Jidia Felix, in
the siinny part of the city, where thou mayest bask
before the door in the day — and I will sell the oil and
the wine for thee, my father — and then, please Venus
(or if it does not please her, since thou lovest not her
name, it is all one to Lydon) ; — then I say, perhaps
thou mayest have a daughter, too, to tend thy grey
hairs, and hear shrill voices at thy knee, that shall call
thee ' Lydon's father ! ' Ah ! we shall be so happy —
the prize can purchase all. Cheer thee ! cheer up, my
sire ; — And now I must away — day wears — the lanista
waits me. Come ! thy blessing ! "

As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the
dark chamber of his father; and speaking eagerly,
though in a whispered tone, they now stood at the
same place in which we introduced the porter at his post.

300 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII,

'' Oh, "bless thee ! bless thee, my brave boy ! " said
]\Iedon, fervently ; " and may the great Power that
reads all hearts see the nobleness of thine, and forgive
its error ! "

The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down
the path ; the eyes of the slave followed its light but
stately steps, till the last glimpse was gone : and then
sinking once more on his seat, his eyes again fastened
themselves on the ground. His form, mute and
unmoving, as a thing of stone. His heart ! — who, in
our happier age, can even imagine its struggles — its
commotion 1

" May I enter?" said a sweet voice. *' Is thy mis-
tress Julia within 1 "

The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to
enter, but she who addressed him coidd not see the
gesture — she repeated her question tunidly, but in a
louder voice.

" Have I not told thee 1 " said the slave, peevishly :
" enter."

" Thanks," said the speaker, plaintively ; and the
slave, roused by the tone, looked up, and recognised
the blind flower-girl. Sorrow can sympathise with
affliction— he raised himself, and guided her steps to
the head of the adjacent staircase (by which you
descended to Julia's apartment), where, summoning a
female slave, he consigned to her the charge of the
blind girl.

CHAPTEE TIL

The Dressing-room of a Pompeian Beauty — Important
Conversation between Julia and Nydia.

The elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves
around her ; — like the cuhiculuni which adjoined it,
the room was smaU, but much larger than the usual
apartments appropriated to sleep, which were so
diminutive, that few Avho have not seen the bed-
chambers, even in the gayest mansions, can form any
notion of the petty pigeon-holes in which the citizens
of Pompeii evidently thought it desirable to pass the
night. But, in fact, " bed " with the ancients was not
that grave, serious, and important part of domestic
mysteries which it is with us. The couch itself was
more like a very narrow and small sofa, light enough
to be transported easily, and by the occupant himself,*
from place to place ; and it was, no doubt, constantly
shifted from chamber to chamber, according to the
caprices of the inmate, or the changes of the season ;
for that side of the house, which was crowded in one
month, might, perhaps, be carefidly avoided in the

* " Take up thy bed and walk " was (as Sir W. Gell somewhere
observes) no metaphorical expression.

302 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

next. There Avas also among the Italians of that
period a singular and fastidious apprehension of too
much daylight; their darkened chambers, which first
appear to us the result of a negligent architecture, were
the effect of the most elaborate study. In their porticos
and gardens, they courted the sun whenever it so
pleased their luxurious tastes. In the interior of their
houses they sought rather the coobiess and the shade.

Julia's apartment at that season was in the lower
part of the house, immediately beneath the state rooms
above, and looking upon the garden, with which it
was on a level. The wide door, which was glazed,
alone admitted the morning rays : yet her eye, accus-
tomed to a certain darkness, was sufficiently acute to
perceive exactly what colours were the most becoming
— what shade of the delicate rouge gave the brightest
beam to her dark glance, and the most youthful fresh-
ness to her cheek.

On the table, before which she sat, was a small and
circular mirror of the most polished steel : round which,
in precise order, were ranged the cosmetics and the
unguents — the perfumes and the paints — the jewels
and the combs — the ribbons and the gold pins, which
were destined to add to the natural attractions of beauty
the assistance of art and the capricious allurements of
fashion. Tlu'ough the dimness of the room glowed
brightly the vivid and various colourings of the wall,
in all the dazzling frescoes of Pompeian taste. Before
the dressing-table, and imder the feet of Jidia, was
spread a carpet, woven from the looms of the East.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 303

Xear at hand, on another table, was a silver basin and
ewer ; an extinguished lamp, of most exquisite work-
manship, in which the artist had represented a Cupid
reposing under the spreading branches of a myrtle-tree ;
and a small roll of papyrus, containing the softest elegies
of Tibidlus. Before the door which communicated with
the cubiculum, hung a curtain ricldy broidered with
gold flowers. Such was the dressing-room of a beauty
eighteen centuries ago.

The fair Jidia leaned indolently back on her seat,
while the ornatrix (i.e., hairdresser) slowly piled, one
above the other, a mass of small curls : dexterously
weaving the false with the true, and carrying the
whole fabric to a height that seemed to place the head
rather at the centre than the summit of the human
form.

Her tunic, of a deep amber, which AveU set off her
dark hair and somewhat embrowned complexion, swept
in ample folds to her feet, which were cased in slippers,
fastened round the slender ankle by white thongs ;
wliile a profusion of pearls were embroidered in the
slipper itself, which was of purple, and turned slightly
upward, as do the Turkish slippers at this day. An
old slave, skilled by long experience in all the arcana of
the toilet, stood beside the hairdresser, with the broad
and studded girdle of her mistress over her arm, and
giving, from time to time (mingled with judicious
flattery to the lady herself), instructions to the mason
of the ascending pile.

" Put that pin rather more to the right — lower —

304 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

stupid one ! Do you not observe how even those
beautiful eyebrows are 1 — One would think you were
dressing Corinna, whose face is all of one side. Xow
put in the flowers — what, fool ! — not that didl pink —
you are not suiting colours to the dim cheek of Cldoris :
it must be the brightest flowers that can alone suit the
cheek of the young Julia."

" Gently ! " said the lady, stamping her small foot
violently ; " you pull my hair as if you were plucking
up a weed ! "

" Dull thing ! " continued the directress of the cere-
mony. "Do you not know how delicate is your
mistress 1 — you are not dressing the coarse horsehair
of the widow Fulvia. Kow, then, the ribbon — that's
right. Fair Julia, look in the mirror ; saw you ever
anything so lovely as yourself?"

When after innumerable comments, difficulties, and
delays, the intricate tower was at length completed, the
next preparation was that of giving to the eyes the soft
languish, produced by a dark powder appHed to the
lids and brows ; a small patch cut in the form of a
crescent, skilfully placed by the rosy lips, attracted
attention to their dimples, and to the teeth, to which
already every art had been applied in order to heighten
the dazzle of their natural whiteness.

To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned
the charge of arranging the jewels — the ear-rings of
pearl (two to each ear) — the massive bracelets of gold
— the chain formed of rings of the same metal, to
which a talisman, cut in crystals, was attached — the

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 305

graceful buckle on the left slioulder, in wliicli was set
an exquisite cameo of Psyche — the gii-dle of purple
ribbon, richly ^^TOught with threads of gold, and clasped
by interlacing serpents — and lastly, the various rings
fitted to every joint of the white and slender fingers.
The toilet was now arranged, according to the last mode
of Eome. The fair Julia regarded herself with a last
gaze of complacent vanity, and, reclining again upon her
seat, she bade the youngest of her slaves, in a listless
tone, read to her the enamoured couplets of Tibullus.
This lecture was still proceeding, when a female slave
admitted JS'ydia into the presence of the lady of the
place.

"Salve, Julia!" said the flower-girl, arresting her
steps within a few paces from the spot where Jidia sat,
and crossing her arms upon her breast. " I have obeyed
your commands."

"You have done well, flower-girl," answered the
lady. "Approach — you maj^ take a seat."

One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nvdia
seated herself.

Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments
in rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned
her attendants to withdraw, and to close the door.
AVhen they were alone, she said, looking mechanically
from Kydia, and forgetful that she was with one who
coidd not observe her countenance, —

" You serve the Neapolitan, lone ? "

" I am with her at present," answered Xydia.
VOL. I. u

306 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Is she as handsome as they say ? "

" I know not," replied Nydia. " How can I judge 1 "

" Ah ! I should have remembered. But thou hast
ears, if not eyes. Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she
is handsome 1 Slaves talking with one another forget
to flatter even their mistress."

" They tell me that she is beautiful."

" Hem ! — say they that she is tall ?"

" Yes."

" WHiy, so am' I. — Dark-hau'cd 1 "

" I have heard so."

" So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much ? "

" Daily," returned Xydia, with a half-suppressed sigh.

" Daily indeed ! Does he find her handsome ? "

" I should think so, since they are so soon to be
wedded."

" Wedded ! " cried Julia, turning pale even tlirough
the false roses on her cheek, and starting from her
couch. !N^ydia did not, of course, perceive the emotion
she had caused. Julia remained a long time silent ;
but her heaving breast and flashing eyes would have
betrayed to one who could have seen, the wound her
vanity sustained.

" They tell me thoii art a Thessalian," said she, at
last breaking silence.

"And truly !"

" Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of
talismans and of love-philtres," said Jidia.

" It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,"
returned N"ydia, timidly.

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 307

" Knowest thou, then, lilind Thessaliau, of any love-
cliarms 1 "

"I!" said the flower -gh-l, colouring; " // how
sliould I ] No, assuredly not ! "

" The worse for thee ; I could have given thee gold
enough to haA-^e purchased thy freedom hadst thou
been more wise."

" But what," asked Nydia, " can induce the beai;tiful
and wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant 1
Has she not money, and youth, and loveliness 1 Are
tJiey not love-charms enough to dispense with magic ? "

"To all but one person in the world," answered
Julia, haughtily: "but methinks thy blindness is
infectious; and But no matter."

" And that one person 1 " said Nydia, eagerly.

" Is not Glaucus," replied Jidia, with the customary
deceit of her sex. " Glaucus — no ! "

Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short
pause Julia recommenced.

" But talking of Glaucus, and his attachment to this
Neapolitan, reminded me of the influence of love-
spells, which, for aught I know or care, she- may have
exercised upon him. Blind girl, I love, and — shall
Julia live to say it 1 — am loved not in return ! This
humbles — nay, not humbles — ^but it stings my pride.
I would see this ingrate at my feet — not in order that
T might raise, but that I might spurn him. "When
they told me thou wert Thessalian, I imagined thy
young mind might have learned the dark secrets of
thy clime."

308 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Alas ! no," murmured JSTydia ; " would it had ! "

" Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish," said Jidia,
unconscious of what was passing in the breast of the
flower-girl.

"But tell me, — thou hearest the gossip of slaves,
always prone to these dim beliefs ; always ready to
apply to sorcery for their own low loves, — hast thou
ever heard of any Eastern magician in tliis city, who
possesses the art of which thou art ignorant 1 No vain
chiromancer, jio juggler of the market-place, but some
more potent and mighty magician of India or of
Egypt r'

" Of Egypt ? — yes ! " said N'ydia, shuddering.
" What Pompeian has not heard of Arbaces 1 "

" Arbaces ! true," replied Julia, grasping at the
recollection. " They say he is a man above all the
petty and false impostures of dull pretenders, — that he
is versed in the learning of the stars, and the secrets
of the ancient Nox; why not in the mysteries of
love 1 "

" If there be one magician living whose art is above
that of others, it is that dread man," answered Nydia :
and she felt her talisman while she spoke.

" He is too wealthy to divine for money 1 " continued
Julia, sneeringly. " Can I not visit him 1 "

" It is an evil mansion for the young and the beau-
tiful," replied i^ydia. " I have heard, too, that he
languishes in "

" An evil mansion ! " said Julia, catching only the
first sentence. " Why so 1 "

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 309

" The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and
polluted — at least so says rumour."

" By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele ! thou dost but
provoke my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,"
returned the wayward and pampered Pompeian. " I
"\s-ill seek and question him of his lore. If to these
orgies love be admitted — why, the more likely that he
knows its secrets ! "

Kydia did not answer.

" I will seek him this very day," resumed Julia ;
" nay, why not this very hour 1 "

"At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast
assuredly the less to fear," answered Xydia, yielding to
her own sudden and secret wish to learn if the dark
Egyptian were indeed possessed of those spells to
rivet and attract love, of which the Thessalian had so
often heard.

" And who dare insult the rich daughter of Diomed'? "
said Julia, haughtily. " I will go."

"May I visit thee afterwards to learn the residf?"
asked Xydia, anxiously.

" Kiss me for your interest in Jidia's honour 1 "
answered the lady. " Yes, assuredly. This eve we
sup abroad — come liither at the same hour to-morrow,
and thou shalt know all : I may have to em}iloy thee
too ; but enough for the present. Stay, take this
bracelet for the new thought thou hast inspired me
with ; remember, if tliou servest Julia, she is grateful
and she is generoiis."

" I cannot take thy present," said Xydia, putting

310 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

aside the bracelet ; " but, young as I am, I can
sympathise unbought with those who love — and love
in vain."

" Sayest thou so ? " returned Julia. " Thou speak-
est like a free woman — and thou shalt yet be free.
FareweU ! "

CHAPTEE YIII.

Julia seeks Arbaces — The result of that Interview.

Arbaces was seated in a cliam])er, which opened on a
kind of balcony or portico, that fronted his garden.
His cheek was pale and worn with the sufterings he
had endured, but his iron frame had already recovered
from the severest efiects of that accident Avhich had
frustrated his fell designs in the moment of \dctory.
The air that came fragi'antly to Iris brow revived his
languid senses, and the blood circulated more freely
than it had done for days through his shrunken veins.
" So then," thought he, " the storm of f\xte has
broken and l^lowii over — the evil which my lore pre-
dicted, tlu'eatening life itself, has chanced — and yet I
live ! It came as the stars foretold ; and now the long,
bright, and prosperous career which was to succeed
that evil, if I survived it, smiles beyond : I have passed
— I have subdued the latest danger of my destiny.
TS^ow I have but to lay out the gardens of my future
fate — unterrified and secure. First, then, of all my
pleasures, even before that of love, shall come revenge !
This boy Greek — who has crossed my passion — thwart-
ed my designs — baffled me even when the blade was

3J2 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

about to drink his accursed blood — shall not a second
time escaj)e me ! But for the method of my vengeance 1
Of that let me ponder well ! 0 Ate ! if thou art in-
deed a goddess, fill me with thy du-est inspii-ation ! "
The Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which did
not seem to present to him any clear or satisfactory
suggestions. He changed his position restlessly, as he
revolved scheme after scheme, which no sooner occurred
than it was dismissed ; several times he struck his
breast and groaned aloud, with the desire of vengeance,
and a sense of his impotence to accomplish it. While
thus absorbed, a boy slave timidly entered the chamber.

A female, evidently of rank, from her dress and that
of the single slave who attended her, waited below and
sought an audience with Arbaces.

" A female ! " His heart beat quick. " Is she
young ? "

" Her face is concealed by her veil ; but her form is
slight, yet round, as that of youth."

" Admit her," said the Egyptian ; for a moment liis
vain heart dreamed the stranger might be lone.

The first glance of the visitor now entering the apart-
ment sufficed to untleceive so erring a fancy. True,
she was about the same height as lone, and perhaps
the same age — true, she was finely and richly formed
— but where was that undulating and ineff"able gi'ace
which accompanied every motion of the peerless Nea-
politan— the chaste and decorous garb, so simple even
in the care of its arrangement — the dignified, yet bash-
fid step — the majesty of womanhood and its modesty 1

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrEII. 313

" Pardon me that I rise -with pain," said Arbaces,
gazing on the stranger : "I am still snft'ering from
recent illness."

'' Do not disturb thyself, 0 great Egyptian ! " re-
turned Julia, seeking to disguise the fear she already
experienced beneath the ready resort of flattery ; " and
forgive an unfortunate female, who seeks consolation
from thy wisdom."

" Draw near, fair stranger," said Arbaces ; " and
speak without apprehension or reserve."

Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egy]itian,
and wonderingly gazed around an apartment whose
elaborate and costly luxuries shamed even the ornate
enrichment of her father's mansion ; fearfully, too, she
regarded the hieroglyphical inscriptions on the walls —
the faces of the mysterious images, which at every
corner gazed upon her — the tripod at a little distance
— and, above all, the grave and remarkable countenance
of Arbaces himself : a long Avhite robe, like a veil, half
covered his raven locks, and flowed to his feet ; his face
was made even more impressive by its present paleness ;
and his dark and penetrating eyes seemed to pierce the
shelter of her veil, and explore the secrets of her vain
and unfeminine soul.

" And what," said his low, deep voice, " brings thee,
0 maiden ! to the house of the Eastern stranger 1 "

" His fame," replied Julia.

" In what 1 " said he, with a strange and slight smile.

" Canst thou ask, 0 wise Arbaces 1 Is not thy know-
ledge the very gossip theme of Pompeii 1 "

314 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up," re-
plied Ai'baces ; " but in what can such serious and
sterile secrets benefit the ear of beauty 1 "

" Alas ! " said Julia, a little cheered by the accus-
tomed accents of adulation ; " does not sorrow fly to
wisdom for relief, and they who love unrequitedly, are
not they the chosen victims of grief? "

" Ha ! " said Arbaces, " can unrequited love be the
lot of so fair a form, whose modelled projDortions are
visible even beneath the folds of thy graceful robe]
Deign, 0 maiden ! to lift thy veil, that I may see at
least if the face correspond in loveliness with the form."

]^ot unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and
thinking they were likely to interest the magician in
her fate, Julia, after some shght hesitation, raised her
veil, and revealed a beauty which, but for art, had been
indeed attractive to the fixed gaze of the Egyptian.

" Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love,"
said he ; " well, turn that face on the ungratefid. one :
what other love-charm can I give thee 1 "

" Oh, cease these courtesies," said Julia ; " it is a
love-charm, indeed, that I would ask from thy skill ! "

" Fair stranger ! " replied Ai-baces, somewhat scorn-
fully, " love-spells are not among the secrets I have
wasted the midniglit oil to attain."

" Is it indeed so? Then pardon me, great Arbaces,
and fere well ! "

" Stay," said Arbac^es, Avho, despite his passion for
lone, was not unmoved by the beauty of his visitor ;
and, had he been in the flush of a more assured

THE LAST DAYS OF POMrElI. 315

health, might have attempted to console the fair Julia
hy other means than those of supernatural wisdom
— " Stay ; although I confess that I have left the
witchery of philtres and potions to those whose trade
is in such knowledge, yet am I myself not so dull to
beauty hut that in earlier youth I may have emijloyed
them in my own behalf. I may give thee advice, at
least, if thou wilt be candid with me. Tell me then,
tirst, art thou unmarried, as thy dress betokens 1 "
" Yes," said Julia.

" And, being unblest with fortune, wouldst thou
allure some wealthy suitor T'

" I am richer than he who disdains me."
" Strange and more strange ! And thou lovest him
who loves not thee 1 "

" I knoAV not if I love him," answered Julia, haughti-
ly ; " but I know that I would see myself triumph over
a rival — I would see him who rejected me my suitor- —
I would see her whom he has preferred, iii her turn
despised."

" A natural ambition and a womanly," said the
Egyptian, in a tone too grave for irony. " Yet more,
fair maiden ; wilt thou confide to me the name of thy
lover 1 Can he be Pompeian, and despise wealth, even
if blind to beauty ? "

" He is of Athens," answered Julia, looking do^vn.
" Ha ! " cried the Egyptian, impetuously, as the blood
rushed to his cheek; " there is but one Athenian, young
and noble, in Pompeii. Can it be Glaucus of whom
thou speakesti"

316 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

" Ah ! betray me not — so indeed they call him."

The Egyptian sank back, gazing vacantly on the
averted face of the merchant's daughter, and muttermg
inly to himself : — this conference, with which he had
hitherto only trifled, amusing himself Avith the credulity
and vanity of his visitor — might it not minister to his
revenge 1

" I see thou canst assist me not," said Julia, offended
by his continued silence ; " guard at least my secret.
Once more, farewell ! "

" Maiden," said the Egyptian, in an earnest and
serious tone, " thy suit hath touched me — I will min-
ister to thy will. Listen to me ; I have not myself
dabbled in these lesser mysteries, but I know one who
hath. At the base of Vesuvius, less than a league
from the city, there dwells a powerful witch ; beneath
the rank dews of the new moon, she has gathered the
herlis which possess the virtue to chain Love in eternal
fetters. Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek
her, and mention to her the name of Arbaces ; she
fears that name, and will give thee her most potent
philtres."

" Alas ! " answered Julia, " I know not the road to
the home of her whom thou speakest of: the way,
short though it Ije, is long to traverse for a girl who
leaves, unknown, the house of her father. The coun-
try is entangled with wild vines, and dangerous with
precipitous caverns. I dare not trust to mere strangers
to guide me ; the reputation of women of my rank is
easily tarnished — and though I care not who knows

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 317

that I love Glaucus, I would not have it imagined that
I obtained his love by a spell."

"Were I but three days advanced in health," said
the Egyptian, rising and walking (as if to try his
strength) across the chamber, but "ttdth irregular and
feeble steps, " I myself would accompany thee. — "Well,
thou must wait."

" But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Is"eapolitan."

"Wed!"

" Yes ; in the early part of next month."

" So soon ! Art thou well advised of this 1 "

" From the lips of her own slave."

" It shall not be ! " said the Egyptian, impetuously.
" Fear nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when
thou obtainest it, canst thou administer to him this
potion 1 "

" ]\[y father has invited him, and, I believe, the
Ifeapolitan also, to a banquet, on the day following to-
morrow : I shall then have the opportunity to admin-
ister it."

" So be it ! " said the Egj'ptian, "with eyes flasliing
such fierce joy, that Julia's gaze sank trembling be-
neath them. " To-morrow eve, then, order thy litter :
— thou hast one at thy command."

" Surely — yes," returned the purse-proud Julia.

" Order thy litter — at two miles' distance from the
city is a house of entertainment, frequented by the
wealthier Pompeians, from the excellence of its baths,
and the beauty of its gardens. There canst thou pre-
tend only to shape thy course — there, ill or dying, I

318 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII.

Avill meet tliee by the statue of Silenus, in the copse
that skhts the garden ; and I myself will guide thee to
the witch. Let us wait till, with the evening star, the
goats of the herdsmen are gone to rest : when the dark
twilight conceals us, and none shall cross our steps.
Go home, and fear not. By Hades, swears Arbaces,
the sorcerer of Egypt, that lone shall never wed with
Glaucus ! "

"And that Glaucus shall be mine"?" added Julia,
filling up the incompleted sentence.

" Thou hast said it ! " replied Arbaces ; and Julia,
half frightened at this imhallowed appointment, but
urged on by jealousy and the pique of rivalship, even
more than love, resolved to fulfil it.

Left alone, Arbaces burst forth, —

"Bright stars that never lie, ye already begin the
execution of your promises — success in love, and victory
over foes, for the rest of my smooth existence. In the
very hour when my mind could devise no clue to the
goal of vengeance, have ye sent this fair fool for my
guide ! " He paused in deep thought. " Yes," said he
again, but in a calmer voice ; " I could not myself have
given to her the poison, that shall be indeed a pliiltre !
— his death might thus be tracked to my door. But
the witch — ay, tJtere is the fit, the natural agent of my
designs ! "

He summoned one of his slaves, bade him hasten to
track the steps of Julia, and acquaint himself with her
name and condition. This done, he stepped forth into
the portico. The skies were serene and clear ; but he,

THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 319

deeply read in the signs of their various change, beheld
in one mass of cloud, far on the horizon, which the
^vind began slowly to agitate, that a storm was brood-
ing above.

" It is like my vengeance," said he, as he gazed ;
" the sky is clear, but the cloud moves on."

NOTES.

NOTES TO BOOK I.

(a) p. 6. — "Flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians tlian to
their descendants," &c.

The modern Italians, especially those of the more southern parts
of Italy, have a peculiar horror of perfumes ; they consider them
remarkably unwholesome ; and the Roman or Neapolitan lady re-
quests her visitors not to use tliem. What is very strange, the
nostril so susceptible of a perfume is wonderfully obtuse to its
reverse. You may literally call Rome, " Sentlna Gentium" — the
sink of nations.

(/') 1^. 35. — "The sixth banqueter, who was the umljra of
Clodius."

A very curious and interesting treatise might be written on the
parasites of Greece and Rome. In the former they were more
degraded than in the latter country. The " Ej^istles " of Alciph-
ron express, in a lively manner, the insults wliich they underwent
for the sake of a dmner : one man complains that tish-sauce was
throwai into his eyes — that he was beat on the head, and given
to eat stones smeared with honey ; while a courtesan threw at him
a bladder filled with blood, which burst on his face and covered
him with the stream. The manner in which these parasites repaid
the hospitality of their hosts was, like that of modern diners-out,
by witty jokes and amusing stories ; sometimes they indulged
practical jokes on each other, "boxing one another's ears." The
magistrates at Athens appear to have looked very sternly upon
these humble buffoons, and they complain of stripes and a prison

VOL. I. X

322 NOTES.

with no philosophical resignation. In fact, the parasite seems at
Athens to have answered the pui-pose of tlie fool of the middle
ages; but he was far more worthless, and perhaj^s more witty —
the associate of courtesans, uniting the pimp with the buffoon.
This is a character peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers
make indeed i^rodigal use of the parasite ; yet he appears at Eome
to have held a somewhat higher rank, and to have met with a
somewhat milder treatment, than at Athens. Nor do the delinea-
tions of Terence, which, in portraying Athenian manners, prob-
ably soften down whatever would have been exaggerated to a
Koman audience, i>resent so degraded or so abandoned a char-
acter as the ijarasite of Alciphron and Athenteus. The more
haughty and fastidious Eomans often disdained, indeed, to admit
such buffoons as companions, and hired (as we may note in Pliny's
"Epistles") fools or mountebanks, to entertain their guests and
supply the place of the Grecian parasite. When (be it observed)
Clodius is styled parasite in the text, the reader must take the
modern, not the ancient interj)retation of the word.

A very feeble but very flattering reflex of the parasite was the
umbra or shadow, who accomjDanied any invited guest, and who
was sometimes a man of equal consequence, though usiially a
IJOor relative, or an humlde friend — in modern cant, "a toady."
Such is the lunbra of our friend Clodius,

((■) p. 39. — '■' The dice in summer, and I an redile ! "
All games of chance were forbidden by law (" Vetit^ legibiis aleS. "
— Ilorat. Od. xxiv. 1. 3), except "in Saturnalilms, " during the
month of December : the aediles were charged with enforcing this
law, which, like all laws against gammg, in all times, was wholly
ineffectual.

(d) p. 48. — " The small but graceful temj^le consecrated to Isis."
Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the
Egyptian Isis.* It soon became " the rage," and was pecidiarly
in vogue with the Roman ladies. Its priesthood were sworn to
chastity, and, like all such brotherhoods, were noted for their
licentiousness. Juvenal styles the priestesses by a name (Isiacse
leiue) that denotes how convenient they were to lovers, and under

^ In the Campanian cities the trade with Alexandria was probably more
efficacious than the piety of Sylla (no very popular example, perhaps) in
establishing the worship of the favourite deity of Egypt.

NOTES. 323

the mantle of night many an amorous intrigne was carried on in
the purlieus of the sacred temples. A lady vowed for so many nights
to watch by the shrine of Isis— it was a sacrifice of continence to-
wards her husband, to be bestowed on her lover! While one
jiassion of human nature was thus appealed to, another scarcely
less strong was also pressed into the service of the goddess- -
namely. Credulity. The priests of Isis arrogated a knowledge of
magic and of the futm-e. Among women of all classes — and
among many of the harder sex — the Egyptian sorceries were con-
sulted and revered as oracles. Voltaire, with much plausible inge-
nuity, eudeavom-s to prove that the gipsies are a remnant of the
ancient priests and priestesses of Isis, intermixed with those of
the goddess of Syria. In the time of Apuleius these holy impos-
tors had lost their dignity and importance ; despised and poor,
they wandered from j)lace to place, sellmg prophecies and curing
disorders ; and Voltaire shrewdly bids us remark that Apuleius
has not forgot their peculiar skill in filching from outhouses and
courtyards — afterwards they practised palmistry and singular
dances (query, the Bohemian dances ?). "Such," says the too con-
clusive Frenchman — "such has been the end of the ancient reli-
gion of Isis and Osiris, whose very names still impress us with
awe ! " At the time in which my story is cast, the worship of
Isis was, however, in the highest rejmte ; and the wealthy devotees
sent even to the Nile, that they might sprinkle its mysterious
waters over the altars of the goddess. I have introduced the ibis
in the sketch of the temple of Isis, although it has been supposed
that that bird languished and died when taken from Egypt. But
from various reasons, too long now to enumerate, I incline to
believe that the ibis was by no means unfrequeut in the Italian
temples of Isis, though it rarely lived long, and refused to breed
in a foreign climate.

NOTE TO BOOK II.

(«) p. 207. — " The marvels of Faiistus are not comparable to
those of Apollonius."

During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen
philosophy, especially of Pythagoras :and of Plato, had become
debased and adulterated, not only by the wildest mysticism,
but the most chimerical dreams of magic. Pythagoras, indeed

324 NOTES.

scarcely merited a nobler destiny; for tliougli he was an exceed-
ingly clever man, lie was a most prodigious mountebank, and was
exactly formed to be the gi'eat father of a school of magicians. Py-
thagoras himself either cultivated magic or arrogated its attributes,
and his followers told marvellous tales of his writing on the moon's
disc, and appearing in several jjlaces at once. His golden rules
and his golden thigh were in especial veneration m Magna Grsecia,
and out of his doctrines of occult numbers his followers extracted
numbers of doctrines. Tlie most remarkable of the later impostors
who succeeded him was Apollonius of Tyana, referred to in the
text. All sorts of prodigies accompanied the birth of this gentle-
man. Proteus, the Egyptian god, foretold to his mother, yet
pregnant, that it was he himself (Proteus) who was about to reap-
pear in the world through her agency. After this, Proteus might
well be considered to possess the power of transformation ! Apol-
lonius knew the language of birds, read men's thoughts in their
bosoms, and walked abovit with a familiar spirit. He was a devil
of a fellow with a devil, and induced a mob to stone a poor demon
of venerable and medicant appearance, who, after the lapidary
operation changed into a huge dog. He raised the dead, passed a
night with Achilles, and, when Domitian was murdered, he called
out aloud (though at Ejihesus at the moment), "Strike the
tyrant ! " The end of so honest and great a man was worthy his
life. It would seem that he ascended into heaven. What less
could be expected of one who had stoned the devil ! Should any
English writer meditate a new Faust, I recommend to him Apol-
lonius.

But the magicians of this sort were philosphers (!) — excellent
men and pious ; there were others of a far darker and deadlier
knowledge, the followers of the Goethic magic ; in other words,
the Black Art. Both of these, the Goethic and the Theurgic,
seem to be of Egyptian origin ; and it is evident, at least, that
their practitioners appeared to pride themselves on drawing their
chief secrets from that ancient source ; and both are intimately
connected with astrology. In attributing to Arbaces the know-
ledge and the repute of magic, as well as that of the science of the
stars, I am therefore perfectly in accordance with the spirit of
his time and the circumstances of his birth. He is a character-
istic of that age. At one time, I purposed to have develoj^ed and
detailed more than I have done the pretensions of Arbaces to the
mastery of his art, and to have initiated the reader into the various
sorceries of the period. But as the character of the Egyptian grew

NOTES. 325

upon me, I felt that it was necessary to be sparing of that machinerj'
wliich, tlianks to the march of knowledge, every one now may fancy
he can detect. Such as he is, Arbaces is become too much of an
intellectual creation to demand a frequent repetition of the coarser
and more physical materials of terror. I suffered him, then,
merely to demonstrate liis capacities in the elementary and obvious
secrets of his craft, and leave the subtler magic he possesses to rest
in mystery and sliadow.

As to the Witch of Vesuvius — her spells and her philtres, her
cavern and its appliances, however familiar to us of the North, are
faithful also to her time and nation. A ^^•itch of a lighter char-
acter, and manners less ascetic, the learned reader will remember
with delight in the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius ; and the reader
who is not learned, is recommended to the spirited translation of
that enchanting romance by Taylor.

NOTE TO BOOK III.

(a) p. 232. — " The influence of the evil eye."

This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded
throughout this work, still flourishes in Magna Grrecia, with scarce-
ly diminished vigour. I remember conversing at Naples with a
lady of the highest rank, and of intellect and information very un-
common amongst the noble Italians of either sex, when I suddenly
observed her change colour, and make a rapid and singular motion
■with her finger. "My God, that man!" she whispered, trem-
blingly.

"What man ?"

" See ! the Coiuit ! he has just entered ! "

" He ought to be much flattered to cause such emotion ; doubt-
less he has been one of the Signora's admirers ?"

" Admirer ! Heaven forbid ! He has the evil eye ! His look fell
full upon me. Something dreadful will certainly hajjpeu."

"I see nothing remarkable in his eyes."

"So much the worse. The danger is greater for being disguised.
He is a terrible man. The last tmie he looked upon my husband,
it was at cards, and he lost half his income at a sitting ; his ill-luck
was miraculous. The Count met mj' little boy in the gardens, and
the poor child broke his arm that evening. Oh ! what shall I do I

VOL. I. Y

326 NOTES.

something dreadful will certainly happen— and, heavens ! he i.s ad-
miring my cap ! "

" Does every one find the eyes of the Count equally fatal, and his
admiration equally exciting ? "

" Every one — he is universally dreaded ; and what is very strange,
he is so angry if he sees you avoid him ! "

" That is very strange indeed ! the wretch I "

At Naples the sujjerstition works well for the jewellers — so many
charms and talismans as they sell for the ominous fascination of
the mal-occhio ! In Pompeii, the talismans were equally numerous,
but not always of so elegant a shapie, nor of so decorous a character.
But, generally speaking, a coral oruam.ent was, as it now is, among
the favourite averters of the evil influence. The Thebans about
Pontus were supposed to have an hereditary claim to this charm-
ing attrilnite, and could even kill grown-up men with a glance. As
for Africa, where the belief also still exists, certain families could
not only destroy children, but wither up ti'ees— they did this, not
with curses but praises. The rnalm ocuius was not always different
from the eyes of other people. But persons, especially of the fairer
sex, with double pupils to the organ, were above all to be shunned
and dreaded. Tlie Illyrians were said to possess this fatal deform-
ity. In all countries, even in the North, the eye has ever been
held the chief seat of fascination ; but nowadays, ladies with a
single puj)il manage the work of destruction pretty easily. So
much do we improve upon our forefathers !

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

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